LIBRARY  OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 

AT  URBANA-CHAMPAIGN 


N819u0c 
v.    2 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2012  with  funding  from 

University  of  Illinois  Urbana-Champaign 


http://archive.org/details/sketchesinpurple02clar 


SKETCHES  IN  PURPLE 


VOLUME  II. 


CONSISTING  OP  REPRESENTATIVE  RBETORICAL 
EXERCISES  WRITTEN  DURING  THE  COLLEGE 
YEAR  1900-1901  BY  UNDERGRADUATES  IN  THE 
COLLEGE  OF  LIBERAL  ARTS  OF  NORTHWEST- 
ERN UNIVERSITY. 


SELECTED   AND  COPYRIGHTED 

By  J.    SCOTT   CLARK. 


EVANSTO.v: 

EVANSTON   PRESS    CO. 
lOOl, 


c 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE. 

We  have  three  objects  in  publishing  this,  the  second   volume  of 
"Sketches   in    Purple":    First,   to   provide    for   our    pupils    a    pleasant 
memento   of   an    interesting  phase   of  their  college  work;    second,   to 
furnish  them  with  a  stimulus  toward  good  writing  that  we  have  found 
to  be  more  fair  and  vastly  more  effective  than  any  system  of  prizes; 
third,  to  exhibit   the  results  obtained   from  the  methods  of  teaching 
English  composition  here  at  Northwestern  University.     These  methods 
are  largely  negative,  especially  those  used  during  the  required  course, 
which  is  mainly  Freshman  work.     That  is  to  say,  we  drill  our  pupils 
continually  in  the  avoidance  of  the  most  common  violations  of  good 
style,  taking  pains  to  warn  each  writer,  individually,  against  his  own 
besetting  literary  sins.     Along  with  this  negative  work  is  given,  of 
course,   information  and  suggestion  as  to  the  best  means  of  gaining 
effective  expression  in  the  five  varieties  of  general  composition.     It  is 
frequently  asserted  that  the  use  of  such  a  negative  method  as  ours 
serves  to  check  the  natural  outflow  of  the  pupil's  thought  and  fancy, 
and   that    his   attention   should   rather  continually   be   called   to   good 
English   and   never  to   errors   in    composition.     Whether   the   articles 
printed  in  this  little  volume  justify  such  an  assertion,  let  our  readers 
decide.     They  are  entirely  the  work  of  their  student-authors.     They 
have   not   been    "edited."     The   only   revision   that   the   themes   have 
received  has  been  through  the  application  by  their  authors  of  certain 
principles  of   good   form  and  style,   suggested   by  the   instructors  by 
means  of  numerical  references  to  these  principles,  placed  in  the  mar- 
gin   of   the   manuscripts   when   first  presented.     The   longer   articles, 
occupying  pages  1  to  209  are  the  work  of  Juniors  and  Seniors  in  an  elec- 
tive course;  the  longer  articles,  on  pages210-288are  the  work  of  Fresh- 
men in  a  required  course.     The  work  of  the  rhetorical  department  in 
any  college  differs  from  that  of  all  other  departments  in  that  it  deals 
with  an  art  rather  than  a  science.     It  is  therefore  to  be  judged  only 
by  its  product.     The  conditions  surrounding  the  production  of  prize 
orations  and  other  public  literary  efforts  of  students  make  it  impos- 
sible that  these  should  be  a  fair  criterion  of  the  literary  work  done  by 
the  undergraduates  as  a  whole.     A  fairer  criterion  is  to  be  found  in 
such   a  volume  as   this.     In   all  our  work  we  aim  at   sincerity    and 
simplicity  rather  than,  profundity,  and  we  ask  that  this  fact  be  borne 
in  mind  in  judging  our  work  and  that  of  our  pupils.     The  articles  in 

1 


this  volume  pretend  to  be  nothing  but  what  they  are — the  honest  work 
of  college  undergraduates.  The  first  volume  of  "Sketches  in  Purple," 
published  in  June,  1900,  was  somewhat  widely  copied  in  various  jour- 
nals without  credit  being  given  as  to  the  source  of  the  articles  copied. 
This  year's  volume  is  copyrighted,  not  for  the  sake  of  excluding  from 
reprint  anything  that  may  be  thought  worthy  of  such  honor,  but  in 
the  hope  that  the  borrower  may  thus  be  induced  to  acknowledge  the 
source  of  the  articles  borrowed.  One-half  the  cost  of  publication  is 
met  by  students'  preliminary  subscriptions.  A  friend  of  the  University 
has  kindly  shared  the  financial  risk  involved  in  publishing  the  whole 
volume. 

Evanston,  111.,  June,  1901. 

J.  SCOTT  CLARK,  Professor; 

OLIN   CLAY  KELLOGG,   Instructor; 

GINEVRA  P.  TOMPKINS,  Assistant. 


THE   MAGAZINE  CLASS 

Few  of  our  students  are  aware  of  the  Pact  that  Northwestern  has 
a  magazine,  issued  twice  a  week,  full  of  brief  articles  of  intense  inter- 
est, well  illustrated,  and  with  little  or  no  advertising.  Its  editor-in- 
chief  is  a  man  well  drilled  in  the  use  of  the  blue  pencil,  whose  edi- 
torials are  short  and  always  to  the  point.  As  we  glance  over  its  pages 
in  some  leisure  hour  our  attention  is  drawn  to  a  clever  pen-and-ink 
sketch  of  a  bit  of  sea  coast,  with  its  lights  and  shadows  faithfully  por- 
trayed; following  that  comes  a  bit  of  verse,  graceful  and  airy  as  the 
spray  on  the  frontispiece.  A  sober  article  on  "Political  Reform"  is 
followed  by  a  humorous  Irish  story,  while  the  next  article  deals  with 
the  character  and  life  of  some  of  the  masters  of  men.  Once  more  .we 
are  recalled  to  this  sordid  world  by  an  earnest  appeal  in  behalf  of  the 
saloon-keeper;  with  a  gasp  of  astonishment  we  turn  in  relief  to  the 
simple,  homely  tale  of  a  beautiful  life  lived  in  the  fear  of  God,  yet 
full  of  love  for  man.  Then  the  old  lady's  favorite  author,  "Tobey  Con- 
tinued," puts  in  his  few  words,  after  which  the  gifted  pen  of  the  next 
contributor  leads  us  to  the  sunny  South,  with  its  gentle  peace  and 
quiet.  In  sharp  contrast  a  laughable  cinematograph  picture  of  a  winter 
scene  and  poor,  fallen  humanity  occupies  the  next  page.  Besides  these 
miscellaneous  articles  the  editor  of  the  "Farm  and  Country"  column 
always  has  something  of  interest,  arranged  in  pleasing  form;  while 
the  department  of  "Verse  and  Reverse"  attracts  a  great  deal  of  atten- 
tion. The  Magazine  is  on  sale  at  no  bookstore  and  has  no  copyright; 
its  name  is  short  but  emphatic,  "English  G." — Ruth  Woodley. 


A     SMILE. 


He  was  a  wolfish-looking  little  fellow;  and  he  sat  on  the  front 
seat  in  the  Mission  School,  not  by  choice,  but  by  compulsion.  His 
unkempt  black  hair  hung  in  strings  around  his  dirty  face,  while  his 
restless  eyes  gleamed  maliciously.  Whatever  brought  him  to  Sunday 
School  would  be  hard  to  say,  for  he  was  the  ringleader  of  "de  fit  ward 
gang."  Across  the  aisle,  and  facing  him,  sat  a  well-dressed  young  lady, 
evidently  a  visitor.  A  hymn  was  given  out,  but  as  she  had  no  book, 
she  waited  until  she  caught  the  restless  glance  of  the  urchin  before 
her.  A  quick  motion  made  known  her  wants,  and,  as  she  leaned  for- 
ward to  take  the  book  he  offered  her,  she  smiled  her  thanks.  An 
answering  smile  lighted  up  the  face  of  the  boy,  but  it  quickly  disap- 
peared, leaving  instead,  a  look  of  mingled  sadness  and  longing.  He 
sat  almost  motionless,  the  cunning  look  gone  from  his  face,  the  rest- 
less glances  quieted.  Poor  little  fellow!  No  one  at  home  ever  smiles 
like  that.    At  school  the  teacher  always  frowns,  while  even  the  team- 

3 


sters  in  the  street  are  his  foes.  It  was  only  a  smile;  but  oh,  the  lesson 
it  taught  of  the  inequality  of  this  life's  burdens,  that  one  little  glimpse 
into  the  happy  side  which  he  could  never  enter! — Ruth  A.  Woodley. 


"LIGHTS     OUT.' 


The  carriage  slowly  filed  in  through  the  vine-covered  archway  at 
Rosehill,  the  clatter  of  the  horses'  hoofs  rudely  waking  the  slumbering 
echoes  of  the  vaulted  passageway.  Winding  along  the  graveled  road- 
ways that  led  through  that  part  of  the  cemetery  dedicated  to  the 
"Army  and  Navy,"  they  drew  up  before  the  monument  inscribed, 

x  "To  the  Memory 

of 
The   Brave    Men    who    Fought,    Side   by   Side,   in    the   Twenty-Second 
Illinois  Infantry,  Company  D." 

The  warm  spring  afternoon  was  drawing  to  a  close;  the  newly 
awakened  grass  was  smiling  a  welcome  to  the  bursting  buds  in  the 
tree-tops,  while  here  and  there  on  the  green  mounds  bright  dandelions 
lay  like  golden  medals. 

On  the  still  air  came  the  solemn  words  of  the  "Service  of  Com- 
mittal": 

"In  the  midst  of  life  we  are  in  death earth  to  earth 

dust  to  dust:    looking  for  the  general  Resurrection through  our 

Lord  Jesus  Christ."  A  squad  of  gray-haired  veterans  stepped  silently 
into  place,  raised  their  rifles,  and  fired  a  solemn  salute.  The  echoes 
of  the  volley  died  away  in  the  distance  as  the  Colonel's  old  bugler, 
putting  his  beloved  instrument  to  his  trembling  lips,  sounded  the  well- 
remembered  call,  "Lights  Out." 

The  last  rays  of  the  setting  sun  lingered  for  a  moment,  casting 
a  silent  benediction  on  the  sorrowing  group  of  comrades,  then  lightly 
kissing  the  folds  of  the  tattered  flag  that  lay  across  the  grave,  they 
disappeared  in  the  twilight. — Ruth  A.  Woodley. 


PICTURES    FROM    MEMORY. 
(With  apologies  to  Alice  Cary.) 

Among  the  horrible  pictures 
That  hang  on  Memory's  wall 

Is  one  of  an  English  paragraph, 
That  seemeth  the  worst  of  all; 

Not  for  its  gnarled  jokes  olden, 
4 


Strung  in  a   laboring  row. 
Not    for   the  similes  golden 

That  sprinkle  the  page  below; 
Not  for  the  bad  punctuation. 

Of  "pity-sakes"  work  the  pledge, 
Coquetting  all  day  with  the  numbers 

Marked  thick  on  the  paper's  edge; 
Not  for  the  words  in  the  corner, 

Where  the  surname   is   written   first, 
Nor  yet  for  the  "C"  at  the  bottom 

It  seemeth  to  me  the  worst. 

I  once  had  a  little  fancy, 

A  thought  that  was  new  and  bright; 
In  the  midst  of  that  English  paragraph 

It  lieth,  a  fearful  sight: 
Light  as  the   down  of  the  thistle, 

Free  as  the  winds  that  blow, 
I  felt  as  I  looked  at  that  fancy. 

And  I  said,  "This  wrill  surely  go." 
But  I  felt  my  feet  grow  wreary. 

And  my  breath  did  not  come  so  free, 
As  I  rose  with  my  little  fancy, 

To  show  it  in  English  G. 
Slowly  the  Master's  fingers 

On  the  chair  arms  took  a  brace, 
As  the  light  of  immortal  agony 

Silently  covered  his  face; 
And  when  I  had  finished  the  paper, 

And  down  in  my  seat  had  sat, 
He  said,  in  his  saint-like  accents, 

"You'll   have   to   write   better  than   that." 
Therefore  of  all  the  pictures 

That  hang  on  Memory's  wall, 
The  one  of  that  "punk"  old  paragraph 

Seemeth  the  worst  of  all. — H.  E.  Russell. 


THE    UPLAND    PLOVER. 

You  perhaps  know  something  of  the  delicate  flavor  of  his  poor 
little  body,  but  if  you  would  know  something  of  his  spirit,  you  must 
forget  how  he  looks  hanging,  with  his  companions,  from  a  butcher's 
hook;  you  must  obliterate  for  a  time  the  memory  of  shop  and  town, 
of  garnished  meats,  of  delicate  flavors.  You  must  go  for  a  long  walk 
on  an  April  afternoon  across  brown  fields  turned  purple  in  the  sunset. 


The  air  is  cold,  and  the  wind  is  nipping.  The  faintest  suspicion 
of  smoke  greets  your  nostrils,  and  you  think  of  old  bon-fires  and 
autumn  leaves  and  nutting  trips  in  lumbering  hay-racks.  Some- 
how, the  memory  of  autumn  always  makes  the  spring  seem  pleasanter, 
and  you  begin  to  feel  that  you  understand  better  what  is  the  great 
truth  of  life. 

The  purple  windflower  nods  at  your  feet  as  you  cross  the  rocky  hill- 
top, and  seems  to  whisper  of  some  unwonted  activity  in  the  great, 
silent  ground  beneath.  A  high-holder  calls  across  the  valley  with 
a  shout  of  welcome  to  you,  a  votary  of  nature.  You  descend  the  hill 
and  traverse  the  desolate  marsh,  where  last  year's  faded  grasses  and 
broken  mustard  stalks  try  to  hide  the  mantling  greenness  underneath. 
Across  the  level  land  the  naked  willows  fringe  the  glowing  bosom 
of  the  west.  The  beams  from  the  sunken  sun  bathe  in  exquisite 
crimson  a  tiny  cloud,  a  fragment  of  the  sunset. 

Up  the  slope  beyond  you  go,  across  the  oat  stubble,  where  sparrows 
cheep  or  meadow  larks  call  plaintively.  The  crows,  like  clumsy  gal- 
leons of  the  air,  are  sailing  homeward  to  the  woodlands.  Up  from  the 
dusking  fields  comes  that  indescribable  smell  of  spring,  that  name- 
less fragrance  of  the  awakened  land.  It  is  dark  now.  Orion  hangs  in 
the  southern  sky.  Lights  gleam  far  away  in  cottage  homes.  A  dog 
barks  aimlessly. 

You  have  now  reached  the  top  of  the  hill.  Pause  here  a  moment 
to  receive  the  full  meaning  of  it  all.  The  faintest  stirrings  of  awaken- 
ing spring.  Be  silent,  and  listen  for  that  voice  coming  from  the 
innermost  sanctuary  of  nature.  Ah,  did  you  hear  it?  From  the 
ground,  from  the  fields,  from  the  sky,  whence  came  it?  It  is  the 
voice  of  the  upland  plover,  the  still,  small  voice  that  comes  from  the 
heart  of  spring. — H.  E.  Russell. 


ON   STORMY  NIGHTS. 

On  stormy  nights  the  drifting  cohorts  come, 

Shrieking  their  battle-song  upon  the  gale; 
They  sweep  the  forests  with  their  distant  hum, 

They  trail  their  mantles  over  hill  and  vale. 
A  tattoo  sounds  upon  the  frosty  pane, 

And  all  the  air  is  thickened  with  the  flights 
Of  snowflakes,  where  old  Winter  stalks  amain 

On  stormy  nights. 

On  stormy  nights  my  crackling  wood  fire  glows, 
My  cozy  cricket  chirps  a  merry  tune, 

And  howling  winds  and  frost  and  drifting  snows 
Bring  brighter  visions  of  the  skies  of  June. 
6 


When  constant   friends  bid  loneliness  depart. 

And  books  provide  a  store  of  old  delights. 
We  find  that  summer  reigns  within  the  heart 

On   stormy   nights.  — H.  E.  Russell. 


A  HOSPITAL  EXPERIENCE. 

The  opening  of  the  elevator  door  is  heard,  and  the  patients'  cart 
comes  slowly  along  the  hall  and  in  through  the  door.  A  sober  interne 
in  snowwhite  costume  follows  the  cart  and  pushes  it  up  beside  my  bed. 
All  the  morning  I  have  been  expecting  him.  My  friends  tell  me  that 
everything  will  come  out  all  right,  that  there  is  every  indication  that 
the  operation  will  be  a  success.  However,  I  recall  the  poor  man  in 
the  cot  across  from  mine.  He  was  suffering  from  the  same  malady, 
and  he  was  carried  away  one  bright  morning  to  the  operating  room, 
never  to  return.  The  night  nurse  had  told  me  that  he  had  been 
removed  to  another  room,  but  I  later  bribed  the  hall-boy,  and  learned 
from  him  that  the  man  had  succumbed  during  the  operation.  Collapse, 
the  doctors  called  it. 

But  here  is  the  interne  shooting  some  morphine  into  my  arm,  and 
telling  me  to  be  of  good  courage.  He  and  the  nurse  help  me  upon  the 
cart,  and  I  am  quickly  borne  away  to  the  elevator.  On  the  floor  above, 
the  odor  of  iodoform  pervades  the  air.  Snow-white  nurses  rush  nois- 
lessly  about.  I  am  wheeled  into  a  bright,  clean  room,  in  the  center  of 
which  is  an  iron  frame  with  a  glass  top.  I  am  placed  upon  this,  and, 
as  I  look  about,  great  pans  full  of  gleaming  knives,  saws,  and  forceps 
leer  from  the  table.  The  interne  enters,  opens  a  can  of  ether,  and 
passes  a  bit  of  cotton,  soaked  in  the  fluid,  before  my  face.  The  sicken- 
ing fumes  enter  my  nostrils.  I  choke.  He  tells  me  to  breathe  deeply 
and  slowly.  I  gradually  become  accustomed  to  the  nauseating  odor. 
He  places  a  cap  over  my  face,  and  I  mentally  bid  good-bye  to  earth. 
Then  my  limbs  and  body  begin  to  feel  far  away.  I  rise,  I  float,  I  fall. 
Suddenly  an  awful  sound  roars  in  my  ears.  Really  it  is  only  the 
nurse  at  the  faucet,  but  it  sounds  to  me  like  a  thousand  buildings 
falling  about  my  head.  Amid  it  all  I  can  hear  my  brother  saying, 
"You're  all  right,  old  man."  Suddenly  there  is  a  crash,  as  if  my  whole 
being  had  gone  out  in  a  puff  of  smoke — and  I  know  no  more. — H.  E. 
Russell. 


THE   SINGING   PINES. 

On  a  gentle  slope  overlooking  a  highway  was  a  grove  of  pines. 
A  river,  winding  past  the  base  of  the  hill,  strayed  away  through  a 
valley  rich  in  grain  fields  and  vinevards,  dotted  with  haughty  castles 

7 


and  stately  abbeys.  In  the  distance,  along  the  highway,  rose  the 
roofs  of  a  great  city.  Many  a  breeze,  coming  through  the  valley, 
murmured .  in  the  grove  of  pines,  so  that  travelers  were  wont  to  say 
that  the  pines  talked  like  human  beings. 

One  evening,  as  twilight  was  deepening,  a  band  of  wayfarers  passed 
the  hill  in  their  journey  to  the  distant  city.  They  were  a  motley  band, 
evidently  drawn  together  for  protection  against  outlaws.  Some  rode 
upon  steeds  richly  caparisoned,  others  plodded  wearily  afoot  through 
the  dust  of  the  road;  some  laughed  and  sang  snatches  of  songs,  others 
were  sternly  silent.  The  murmur  of  the  pines  came  audibly  upon 
the  air. 

"They  tell  us,"  said  one  of  the  travelers,  "that  these  pines  speak 
with  a  human  voice,  and  have  a  message  for  us,  have  we  but  ears  to 
hear.  Come,  friend,"  addressing  a  companion,  "what  do  the  pines 
seem  to  say  to  thee?" 

The  other  was  a  young  man  pranked  out  in  gay  colors.  He 
blushed,  then  said,  softly,  "They  sing  of  love.  They  tell  of  a  fair  maid 
impatiently  waiting  for  her  lover  to  come  to  her." 

"Nay,  nay,  my  son,"  said  another,  a  lean,  closely  cowled  monk, 
"thou  hast  not  heard  the  song  aright.  The  pines  do  murmur  of  a 
heavenly  country,  of  palms  and  crowns  and  singing  and  meetings  of 
friends." 

"Yet,  father,  such  do  I  not  hear,"  exclaimed  a  knight  in  the 
strength  of  manhood.  "I  seem  to  hear  the  blasts  of  bugles,  the  splint- 
ering of  lances,  and  the  applause  of  fair  ladies.  But  tell  us,  silent 
stranger,  what  dost  thou  hear  in  yon  voices?" 

The  one  addressed  rode  apart,  nor  did  he  often  deign  an  answer 
to  his  companions.  His  face  had  been  hidden  in  his  black  mantle; 
but  now,  drawing  his  cloak  aside,  he  revealed  a  face  so  ghastly,  and 
eyes  so  sunken,  that  his  companions  started  as  if  they  had  seen  a  spirit. 

"What  do  they  say?"  he  replied.  "Ah,  they  mock  at  me;  they 
hiss  at  me;  I  seem  to  hear  the  groans  of  a  dying  man  as  the  murderer's 
fingers  tighten  about  his  neck.  I  hear  the  cry  stick  in  his  throat,  the 
whisper  die  upon  his  lips.  All  this  the  pines  say  to  me,  then  they  cry 
out  at  me,  and  call  me — " 

The  party  had  now  passed  on  into  the  darkness,  so  that  the  words 
of  the  speaker  were  no  longer  audible.  Yet  the  pines  murmured  softly 
as  the  cool  night  air  tarried  in  their  boughs,  ere  it  sped  away  to  visit 
the  sleeping  valley. — H.  E.  Russell. 


A  SKETCH  IN  PURPLE. 

I  sat  at  night  upon  a  lonely  shore  beside  a  silent  sea.  Far  off 
over  the  crimson  waters  the  bloody  moon  glared  luridly,  and  cast  his 
baleful   spell   over  the  troubled   land.     Silhouetted  against  the  warm 


sky  stood  the  inky  shapes  of  poplars,  rooted,  as  if  by  enchantmenl 
upon  the  barren  hill.  No  motion  was  there  against  the  sea,  or  land, 
or  sky,  save  where,  low  skimming  the  distant  horizon,  a  huge  night 
bird  swept  along,  his  mighty  pinions  moving  athwart  the  moon  like 
the  fingers  of  a  ghoul.  Suddenly  a  shudder,  thrilling  the  surface  of 
the  glassy  water,  broke  in  a  sobbing  whisper  at  my  feet.  The  moon 
turned  darkly  red,  and  although  no  wind  agitated  the  stifling  air, 
the  poplars  writhed  and  swayed  as  if  each  were  a  damned  spirit. 
And  now  the  mists  of  the  sea,  like  sheeted  ghosts,  crept  in  along  toe 
land,  and  as  they  glided  toward  the  hill,  from  the  bowels  of  the 
earth  came  murmurs,'  such  as  might  come  from  dead  men  speaking  in 
their  graves. 

The  waves  were  now  moaning  and  crawling  and  hissing,  and 
slipping  up  and  down  the  sands  at  my  feet.  A  sudden  chill  came 
in  across  the  ocean,  and  the  air  grew  murky.  The  sheeted  figures 
among  the  poplars  stood  rigid  as  marbles  upon  a  tomb,  each  pointing 
toward  the  distant  horizon.  The  whole  scene  became  as  motionless 
as  stone.  I  could  not  help  looking  away  in  the  direction  indicated 
by  the  pointing  figures. 

Suddenly  a  mighty  ship  came  out  of  the  deep,  and  bore  rapidly 
toward  land.  Against  the  black  sky  gleamed  all  its  spars  a  pure  white. 
The  dark  waters  slunk  away  from  it,  yet  on  it  came,  straight  for  the 
spot  where  I  sat  upon  the  shore.  Surely  it  would  strand  among  the 
shallows — no,  on  it  came,  seemingly  riding  the  air.  A  mighty  ship 
of  ancient  pattern,  it  loomed  high  above  me,  and  ghosts  trod  its  deck. 
A  figure  now  appeared  at  the  prow,  the  figure  of  a  woman. 
Something  in  her  features  led  me  to  try  to  recall  her  name.  She 
turned  reproachful  eyes  upon  me,  eyes  full  of  blighted  love,  of 
nourished  revenge,  and  I  cried  to  her: 

"O  thou  whom  I  dimly  remember,  but  cannot  name,  if  I  have  ever 
injured  thee,  ever,  in  some  existence  which  I  now  have  forgotten, 
done  thee  aught  of  harm,  I  pray  thee  forgive  me,  for  in  this  life 
I  have  tried  to  live  aright  and  to  expiate  the  evils  done  in  former 
states.     O  thou  avenging  spirit  of  the  past,  forgive  me,  I — " 

I  awoke,  and  found  myself  bawling  forth  in  the  darkness  of  my 
chamber.  Late  suppers  are  not  generally  recommended  by  physicians, 
but  they  often  result  in  some  novel  theories  in  philosophy. — H.  E. 
Russell. 


MEDITATIONS  OF  A  WEATHER-COCK. 

Whew,  how  that  north  wind  comes  howling  past  my  ears!  And 
I've  got  to  stand  and  face  it,  too,  and  look  off  over  house-tops,  and 
barren  farms  and  distant  hills  with  their  naked  forests  and  low, 
blue  clouds  leering  at  me  from  the  horizon.  I  wonder  if  the  wind 
comes  out  of  those   clouds.     Or   perhaps    it    is    made    in    the  forest, 

9 


for  often  have  I  seen  the  trees  tossing  their  branches,  and  almost 
immediately  I've  felt  the  breezes  in  my  wattles.  How  bleak  the 
country  looks!  And  March  at  that,  with  spring  only  six  weeks  away! 
Look  at  the  man  coming  with  a  load  of  wood  over  yonder  hill-top! 
How  the  steam  rises  from  the  horses'  nostrils!  I  can  sympathize 
with  them,  for  already  my  feet  feel  like  lead  instead  of  zinc  double 
riveted.  Down  in  that  back  yard  a  proud  young  Shanghai  is  lead- 
ing his  band  of  devoted  hens  around  the  barn.  Through  what  per- 
versity of  fate  am  I,  whose  breast  yearns  for  the  companionship  of 
my  kind,  doomed  to  stand  here  alone  with  my  feet  nailed  to  a 
block  and  to  play  the  part  of  an  inconstant  admirer,-  now  to  the 
cross  on  the  church  spire,  now  to  the  yellow  ball  on  the  school- 
house  flag-staff?  Long  ago  in  the  tin  shop  I  once  heard  the  story 
of  a  man  chained  forever  to  a  rock  on  a  mountain.  I  wonder  if 
he's  there  yet.  Perhaps  it's  that  very  mountain  whose  white  peak 
looms  far  in  the  distance.  Cock-a-doodle-do!  Hail  there,  friend  in 
adversity — 

Hello,  what's  this?  The  wind  has  switched  my  fickle  tail  around 
again,  and  now  I  am  looking  down  upon  the  village  street.  This 
position  of  mine  on  the  town  hall  procures  me  much  attention,  for 
notice  how  the  creeping  citizens  below  crane  their  necks  upward  to  see 
in  what  direction  I'm  looking.  Fickle  weather,  gentlemen.  Don't 
go  much  by  what  I  say.  I'm  heartily  ashamed  of  those  tail  feathers 
of  mine,  flirting  with  every  errant  breeze.  Strange,  isn't  it,  how  a 
person  is  often  influenced  by  those  things  that  he  wishes  to  put 
behind  him?  Just  see  that  young  fellow  in  the  doctor's  office  across  the 
street,  how  he  looks  over  my  way!  But  I  don't  flatter  myself.  There's 
a  pretty  typewriter  girl  in  the  room  just  below  me. 

But  there  I  go  again,  and  this  time  I  am  looking  off  into  the 
blue  southern  sky.  Somehow,  this  southern  breeze  has  an  odor 
about  it  that  I  like,  an  odor  of  warm  mold  and  newly  turned  soil 
and  big  fat  worms  and  green  grass.  Would  you  believe  it,  I  actually 
hear  a  bluebird  singing.  Yes,  spring  is  coming  sure.  Listen  to  that 
rooster  crowing.  He  knows  that  soon  there'll  be  plenty  of  grubs  and 
insects.  I'd  like  to  flap  my  wings  now,  but  they're  fastened  to  my 
side.  Never  mind.  Life  is  jolly,  anyway,  and  I  want  no  better  occu- 
pation than  to  bear  to  the  good  folk  of  the  village  the  tidings  of  com- 
ing birds  and  grass  and  flowers. — H.  E.  Russell. 


THE   VOICES   OF    THE    WINDS, 

O  eastern  wind, 
Across  the  lake,  from  out  the  morning  sky 
You  come  to  me,  and  in  3  01; r  vr.'ce  I  hear 

1!) 


The  varied  murmur  of  the  teeming  earth: 
The  breath  of  city  streets  I  feel,  and  towi 
And  ancient  hattle  fields  I  seem  to  see. 
You  bring  a  longing  to  my  aching  heart, 
And  I  would  he  away  across  the  seas, 
Along  the  Rhine,  or  in  the  storied  realms 
Of  golden  Greece  or  Rome,  in  sunny  climes 
Bathed  in  the  mellow  tint  of  long  ago. 

O  western  wind, 
The  level  prairies  and  the  beetling  heights 
That  crown  the  western  land  these  are  your  home. 
The  silence  of  the  awful  peaks  is  yours; 
You  bear  the  eagle  on  his  dizzy  flight, 
The  wolf's  far  cry  throughout  the  empty  land. 
Wind  of  the  sunset,  you  have  brought  to  me 
The  large,  free  spirit  of  the  mighty  West. 
Grander  than  mountain  peaks  that  talk  with  stars. 
Welcome  your  chillirg  breath,  O  western  wind. 

0  southern  wind, 
You  bring  to  me  the  fragrance  of  the  rose, 
The  warmth  and  ruddy  sparkle  of  the  vine. 
The  languor  of  the  flowery  meads,  the  balm 
Of  cypress  groves,  the  laughter  of  the  palms. 
Across  your  green  savannas  roaming  free, 
You  sing  to  me  your  low,  sweet  southern  song. 
I  hear  the  twitter  of  the  birds  at  eve, 
And  catch  the  music  of  a  light  guitar. 
Played  by  a  dreaming  maiden  in  whose  veins 
Pulses  the  fiery  blood  of  sunny  Spain. 

O  northern  wind, 
Icy  your  breath,  but  warm  your  boisterous  heart. 
Out  of  the  frozen  fields  of  Labrador, 
Over  the  gloomy  forests  of  the  north, 
Come  to  me  now:  speak  of  my  northern  home. 
Bring  to  my  ears  a  tinkle  of  the  brooks; 
Whisper  an  echo  of  the  murmuring  pines.  i 

Upon  your  breast  the  veering  waterfowl 
Floats  to  his  far-off  home.     O  bring  with  him 
A  message  from  the  ones  I  know  the  best, 
Those  whom  I  love  within  the  silent  North. 

— H.  E.  Russell. 


11 


UP  FROM  THE   STREETS. 

When  the  twilight  steals  o'er  the  busy  town, 

And  the  light  of  the  west  fades  slow  away, 
From  my  window  high  I  am  looking  down 

On  the  roofs  of  the  tenements,  cold  and  gray. 
And  far  beneath,  on  the  pavement  damp, 

Is  the  passing  throng  with  its  weight  of  care; 
And  the  rhythmic  beat  of  its  steady  tramp 

Comes  up  from  the  streets  like  an  evening  prayer. 

The  night  wind  sobs  as  it  bears  along 

The  drunkard's  curse  and  the  wanton's  cry; 
Yet  I  heed  them  not,  for  there  comes  the  song 

Of  a  mother  who  murmurs  a  lullaby. 
For  Love  and  Pity  and  Mercy  mild 

Will  flourish  where  Hatred  and  Vice  have  been; 
And  the  mother's  croon  o'er  her  little  child 

Will  hallow  the  streets  that  are  stained  with  sin. 

Up  from  the  streets  with  the  other  noise, 

The  sounds  of  children  are  on  the  air, 
The  merry  games  of  the  romping  boys, 

The  laughter  of  girls  on  the  tenement  stair. 
Wee  desert  people  these  children  seem; 

In  the  waste  of  the  city  they've  lost  their  way; 
But  their  songs  are  psalms  of  praise,  I  deem, 

Floating  up  from  the  streets  at  the  close  of  day. 

In  the  light  of  a  country  that's  far  away, 

On  the  jasper  walls  of  a  city  bright, 
Methinks  I  can  hear  the  Master  say, 

As  he  gazes  down  on  us  all  to-night, 
And  hears  the  sounds  of  the  busy  street 
That  far  on  the  breezes  rise  and  swell, 
"  The  city's  roar,  like  incense  sweet, 

Comes  up  from  the  streets  that  I  love  so  well." 

— H.   E.   Russell. 


THE  BULL  CALF. 

Yes,  it  surely  was  a  bargain.  Two  dollars  for  a  calf  that,  in  a 
year,  would  be  worth  ten.  Uncle  Amasa  looked  the  animal  over,  then 
scratched  his  head  in  silent  thought.  Aunt  Sarah  "had  an  idee"  that 
they  could  well  spare  the  money,  and  it  would  make  fine  beef  in 
two  years.  Yet  Amasa  was  not  convinced.  Why  did  the  stranger 
wish  to  sell  the  calf  so  cheaply?     Perhaps  it  had  some  disease. 

12 


No,  the  stranger  assured  them,  the  animal  hadn't  a  blemish.  He 
simply  wanted  to  sell  the  beast,  and  was  tired  of  looking  around 
for  a  purchaser.  Indeed,  the  man  did  look  tired.  His  eyes  had  an 
expression  of  resigned  despair,  as  if  he  had  been  struggling  vainly 
against  heavy  odds.  Those  eyes  brightened  greatly,  however,  as  Uncle 
Amasa  counted  out  two  crisp  bills,  and  took  the  calf  in  tow.  The 
new  possession  was  made  secure,  by  its  long  rope,  to  the  end  board 
of  the  democrat,  and  slowly  Uncle  Amasa  and  Aunt  Sarah  rode  out 
of  the  village. 

"Ye  did  well  by  that  critter,  Amasy,"  said  Aunt  Sarah,  adjusting 
her  brown  cotton  sun-shade. 

"Yes,  I  reckon  I  did,"  was  the  reply. 

Aunt  Sarah,  in  her  pride,  must  needs  take  another  look  at  the 
object  of  this  talk. 

"Why,  paw,"  she  cried,  "the  calf's  loose." 

It  was  indeed  true.  The  rope  had  become  untied,  and  there  the 
animal  stood,  several  rods  down  the  road,  gazing  serenely  at  the 
departing  democrat.  Uncle  Amasa  made  haste  to  dismount,  and 
going  back,  he  picked  up  the  trailing  rope,  crying,  "Come  along  thar." 

This  calf,  however,  was  not  like  other  calves.  He  shook  his  head, 
and  planted  his  feet  more  firmly  in  the  mud  of  the  road.  Uncle 
Amasa  gave  a  long,  steady  pull,  but  it  was  like  pulling  out  stumps. 
It  became  a  tug-of-war.  Aunt  Sarah  had  put  down  her  sun-shade,  and 
was  peering  back  intently.  Finding  his  own  strength  unavailing, 
Uncle  Amasa  called,  "Sairy,  back  up  the  demycrat." 

Now,  backing  a  democrat  was  something  that  old  Peter  wasn't 
used  to,  and  it  was  a  long  way  back  to  the  scene  of  conflict.  Aunt 
Sarah,  however,  rose  to  the  occasion,  and  after  sundry  jerkings  and 
scoldings,  she  succeeded  in  backing  old  Peter  and  the  democrat  into 
a  clump  of  blackberry  bushes  beside  the  road,  where  a  wheel  stuck 
fast  against  a  stump.  The  mutterings  going  on  in  Amasa's  breast  now 
burst  forth  like  a  hurricane,  when  Sarah  cried,  "Oh,  paw,  do  be  still. 
Here  comes  the  new  preacher." 

The  man  of  God  now  hove  in  sight  around  the  bend  of  the  road. 
"Paw"  tried  to  restrain  himself,  but  just  at  that  moment  the  calf 
jerked  his  head,  and  the  rope  broke.  Uncle  Amasa  sat  down  in 
the  mud,  and  then  it  was  that  Aunt  Sarah  heard  the  long-dreaded 
profanity: 

"Jee-rusalem  the  Golden!" 

"Why,  Brother  Jimpkins,  what  words  do  I  hear?"  cried  the  parson, 
dismounting  from  his  buck-board.  The  calf,  however,  interrupted  any 
further  speech  from  that  gentleman,  by  butting  him  off  his  feet  and 
into  a  patch  of  thistles.  Thereupon  the  new  possession  fled  majesti- 
cally over  the  neighboring  hill-top.  The  parson  could  only  mutter,  as 
he  rode  away,  "Bless  the  brute!     Bless  the  brute!" 

13 


Uncle  Amasa  chuckled  audibly,  perhaps  remembering  that  scrip- 
tural verse,  'They  bless  with  their  mouths,  but  curse  inwardly." — H. 
E.  Russell. 

A  NEWSPAPER   DREAM. 

Recently,  in  one  of  our  neighboring  colleges,  a  student  retired  for 
the  night.     Two  mischievous  friends,   seeing  the  door  open,  entered 
and  dashed  a  tumbler  of  water  over  the  unsuspecting  sleeper.     The 
student   gave   a   yell   of   terror,   dreaming  that    he   was   drowning   in 
mid   ocean.     The   perpetrators   of   the   joke   told    at   breakfast  of  the 
student's  fright,  and  the  correspondent  of  the  Daily  Intereverything 
thought  that  he  saw  a  story.     He  called  it  a  case  of  hazing,  made 
the  band  of  hazers  six,  and  substituted  a  pail  for  the  tumbler.     His 
paper  was  the  only  one  next  morning  to  publish  the  story,  but  the 
Evening    Distress    had    an    article,    and    this    time    the    student    was 
soused  in  a  bath-tub  till  he  begged  for  mercy.     The  president  of  the 
college  had  now  been  interviewed,  and  he  had  said  that,  while  the 
hazing  had  not  come  to  his  official  notice,  yet  he  was  prepared   to 
deal  summarily  with  the   hazers.     Next  morning  all  the  papers  had 
articles  on  the  hazing.     The  Bawl-Chatter  said  that  twenty  students 
had  broken  into  the  room,  bound  their  victim  to  the  bed,  and  turned 
the  hose  upon  him  until  the  miserable  wretch,  piteously  begging  them 
to  stop,  had  become  unconscious,  and  the  dripping  water  had  roused 
those  living  beneath  to  summon  out  the  fire  department.     The  Daily 
Gibber  said  that  the  student  was  now  in  a  precarious  condition,  and 
fears    were    entertained    concerning    his    recovery,    that    the    college 
trustees  had   held   a  special  session   to   discuss  the  action,  and  that 
forty  students  were  hourly  in  danger  of  expulsion.     Then  came,  the 
Sunday  papers  with  pictures  of  the  victim  and  of  the  college  presi- 
dent.    Editorials    were    written,    and    poems   and    jokes    appeared    on 
the  same   subject,  while  an  excellent   cartoon  was  printed   with  the 
caption,  "Recrudescence  of  Hazing  in  American  Colleges."     Next  day 
the  student  was  surprised  by  the  hasty  advent  of  his  parents  from  the 
country,  and  it  took  him  some  time  to  convince  them  that  the  horrible 
tragedy  was  only  a  newspaper  dream. — H.  E.  Russell. 


THE  NATIONAL  GAME. 

He  was  nothing  but  a  second  baseman  on  the  college  team,  and  she 
was  only  a  Freshman  girl,  who  thought  that  attendance  on  the  games 
was  a  duty.  From  the  tall  bleachers  she  looked  down  at  him,  and 
admired;  he,  on  the  other  hand,  could  always  pick  her  out  from  a 
bunch  of  pink  and  white  and  purple.  She  admired  the  masterly  way 
in  which  he  sneaked  up  behind  the  man  on  second  just  as  the  catcher 

14 


signaled  to  the  pitcher  to  turn  around  and  "lam"  it,  and  he  had 
begun  to  love  her  since  that  day  when  she  had  risen  and  yelled  "rotten" 
at  the  umpire. 

One  afternoon  he  went  to  see  her,  and  she  knew  that  he  was 
coming.  They  sat  on  the  back  porch,  where  they  could  watch  the 
boys  playing  "two  old  cat"  across  the  alley.  He  realized  that  to-day 
"it  was  up  to  him."  It  was  three  balls  and  two  strikes,  and  he  was 
anxious  to  know  whether  he  would  be  put  out  or  not. 

"Dolly,"  he  said  softly,  "I  have  something  to  tell  you."  He 
paused,  and  looked  abstractedly  away  into  the  sunset.  Once  or  twice 
he  spat  upon  his  hands,  and  she  imagined  that  she  could  see  him 
knocking  the  ball  over  the  centerfielder's  head.  She  wished  to  bring 
him  back  to  the  subject,  however,  so  she  said  timidly,  "Play  ball." 

"Dolly,"  he  began  again,  "I  know  that  I  don't  stand  much  show 
against  your  pitching.  I  never  mind  it  at  all  with  other  girls,  but 
somehow,  since  you've  stepped  into  the  box,  you've  been  throwing 
the  curves  all  around  me.  I've  struck  at  'em  wildly  enough,  hoping 
to  make  a  safe  hit  and  eventually  steal  home,  but  you  dazzle  me  too 
much.  Dolly,  won't  you  hit  me  with  the  ball,  and  let  me  take  my 
base?" 

He  looked  earnestly  at  her,  but  she  answered,  "Nonsense,  Harry. 
I  don't  admire  these  players  who  are  satisfied  if  they  only  reach 
first.  I  want  a  man  who  never  stops  this  side  of  third.  If  you  step 
up  boldly  to  the  plate,  who  knows — " 

It  was  her  turn  to  pause  and  gaze  at  the  ball  game  across  the 
alley.  But  the  second  baseman  gave  a  cry  of  joy,  and  folded  the 
freshman  "rooter"  against  his  purple  sweater.  He  knew  that  he  had 
made  a  home  run. — H.  E.  Russell. 


SPEAKING  PIECES. 

"Put  away  your  work  and  come  to  order." 

There  was  a  noise  of  clattering  slates,  of  falling  books,  and  of 
dropping  pencils.  Shaggy  heads  popped  up  here  and  there,  and 
expectant  grins  were  on  many  freckled  faces;  for  was  not  this  Friday 
afternoon,  and  were  not  one-fourth  of  the  pupils  to  speak  pieces?  The 
girls  put  their  apartments  in  order,  and  sat  attention.  Pete  and 
Jimmy  Pyle  appeared  above  the  ramparts  of  their  desk,  and  two 
grimy  sleeves  moved  lovingly  across  two  pairs  of  lips  wet  with  apple 
juice.  Ezra  Corn,  the  boy  with  the  St.  Vitus  dance,  shot  his  head 
suddenly  forward,  as  if  to  detach  it  from  the  body  and  bowl  it  down 
the  row  of  small  girls  before  him.  Warty  Bill  threw  his  last  paper 
wad,  and  lapsed  into  innocuous  desuetude.  Delightful  anticipation 
shone  on  most  faces,  but  some  few  had  the  look  of  a  man  going  to 
his  doom. 

15 


The  teacher  timied  the  pages  of  her  book,  and  called  out,  "Johnny 
Phem."  Johnny  jumped  as  if  shot,  then  slowly  arose,  sidled  up  to 
the  platform,  stretched  himself  to  his  full  stature,  put  his  hands 
behind  him,  thoughtfully  scratched  the  innerside  of  his  right  leg  with 
the  great  toe  of  his  left  boot,  then  shut  his  eyes,  and  informed  the 
astonished  audience  that  he  was  monarch  of  all  he  surveyed.  There 
being  none  present  who  desired  to  dispute  his  title,  he  finished  in 
peace  and  went  to  his  seat.  Jenny  Ransom  was  then  bade  to  speak. 
With  pale  face,  dilated  nostrils,  and  wildly  staring  eyes,  she  stood 
forth,  and,  in  a  voice  scarcely  above  a  whisper,  she  accounted  for  her 
strange  trepidation  by  saying  that  her  heart  was  in  the  Highlands, 
chasing  the  deer.  As  Jenny  told  of  her  loss,  the  dumb  agony  on  her 
face  was  a  sight  to  behold. 

Other  speakers  followed  rapidly.  Teddy  Winthrop  knew  that  he 
stood  at  the  end  of  the  list,  and  his  heart  beat  high  with  the  hope 
that  the  hour  would  be  up  before  his  time  should  come.  Four  now 
remained  to  speak,  and  there  were  six  more  minutes  of  school.  Nathan 
Tompkins  began  well  on  the  "Psalm  of  Life,"  and  Teddy  thought  that 
that  was  long  enough  to  take  up  all  the  available  time,  but  Nathan 
knew  only  two  stanzas.  Susie  Trotter  was  soon  through  with  her 
selection,  and  Georgie  Van  Eilen  was  absent.  The  teacher  closed  her 
book,  and  Teddy's  heart  gave  a  great  throb  of  joy,  but  almost  immedi- 
ately the  book  was  open  again. 

"Why,"  she  said,  "I  forgot  Theodore  Winthrop.  Come,  Theodore, 
it's  your  turn  now." 

She  had  meant  to  be  pleasant,  but  Teddy  knew  that  it  was  a  siren 
voice  dragging  him  against  the  rocks.  It  was  a  horrible,  sickening 
moment  in  his  life.  With  nothing  in  his  mind  but  a  confused  murmur, 
he  arose  and  found  himself  before  that  sea  of  cruel  faces.  What 
was  he  up  there  for?  He  gazed  blankly  through  the  window,  where 
the  branches  lay  still  in  the  summer  afternoon.  This  gave  him  his 
cue,  and  he  began: 

"  Woodman,  spare  that  tree. 
Touch  not  a  single  bough. 
In  youth  it  sheltered  me, 

And  I — I — I'll  protect  it  now — " 
A  look  of  intense  consternation  came  into  Teddy's  face.  There 
was  silence.  Rather  than  this  awful  stillness,  he  would  go  back 
and  get  a  fresh  start.  He  believed  that  he  bad  begun  the  poem  wrong. 
He  had  begun  the  day  wrong.  Oh,  why  didn't  he  play  hookey,  and 
go  off  to  the  woods,  and  get  a  whipping  at  night?  He  began  the 
poem  all  over  again,  but  somehow  the  words  persisted  in  hanging 
lovingly  on  his  offers  of  protection. 

"And  I'll  protect  it  now — "  Teddy's  face  became  white. 
"And  I'll  protect  it  now — "  Teddy's  knees  shook. 
"And  I'll  protect  it  now — boo — hoo — hoo — "  Teddy  was  in  inglor- 
ious retreat. 

16 


The  brutal  audience  that   had.  up  to  this  time,  delighted   in  his 

torment,  now  sympathized  with  him  in  his  defeat.  It  was  the  repro- 
duction of  a  circus  scene  of  ancient  Rome,  where  the  people  held  up 
their  thumbs  in  token  of  life  for  one  who  had  fought  valiantly. — H. 
E.  Russell. 


A    PRIMORDIAL   WOOING. 

A  long  time  ago,  when  the  world  was  new, 

And  folks  lived  up  in  the  cocoa-nut  trees, 
And  swung  on  the  branches  the  whole  day  through, 

Or  rummaged  their  hair  for  a  meal  of  fleas, 
Those  poor  people  never  once  dreamed  of  the  sights 

1  hat  their  children's  children  would  live  to  see, 
Those  Simians  never  stayed  awake  nights 

To  think  of  the  land  of  the  "Is-to-be." 

No  parlors  there  were  in  the  long  ago, 

Where  one  could  sit  with  the  charming  fair, 
And  whisper  and  sigh,  with  the  light  turned  low, 

And  thank  his  stars  that  her  pa  wasn't  there. 
Their  ways  were  awkward  and  slow,  it  would  seem. 

WTere  they  living  now,  they  would  learn  a  few, 
And  yet  they  knew  something  of  love's  young  dream, 

In  the  ancient  days  when  the  world  was  new. 

One  summer  morning  a  chimpanzee, 

In  the  olden  times  when  the  world  was  new, 
Sang  loud  to  his  love  from  a  cocoa-nut  tree, 

In  the  ancient  kingdom  of  Timbuctoo; 
And  he  cried,  "0  darling,  so  sweet  and  .prim, 

What  rapture  to  see  you  a-sitting  there, 
With  your  tail  curled  over  the  knot  of  a  limb! 

Oh,  may  I  not  call  you  my  true  love,  fair?" 

But  while  the  lover  thus  sang  and  cried, 

And  languished  and  yearned  for  his  true  love,  fair, 
The  lady  in  question  scratched  her  side, 

Then  turned  and  gave  him  the  haughty  stare; 
And  said,  "You  are  altogether  too  bold, 

The  top  of  your  head  hasn't  any  hair  on. 
I  am  young,  but  you  are  ugly  and  old — 

I  cannot  love  you.     Begone.     Begone." 

Then  the  wily  old  "munk"  winked  his  other  ear, 
And  said,  "That  I'm  ugly  must  be  confessed, 
17 


But  yet  I'm  a  wealthy  old  codger,  my  dear; 

1  have  cocoa-nut  trees  till  you  couldn't  rest." 
Then  a  change  came  over  the  lady  fair; 

Away  to  greet  him  she  swiftly  flew, 
And  she  cooed,  "I  was  giving  you  only  hot  air. 

You're  the  rarest  old  darling  in  Timbuctoo." 

As  I  said  before,  those  were  stupid  days, 

When  folks  lived  up  in  the  tree-tops  high. 
Their  sons  and  daughters  could  show  them  ways 

That  would  make  them  open  each  blinking  eye. 
Yet  we  must  confess  that  those  people  seem 

(In  those  far-off  times  when  the  world  was  new) 
To  have  known  a  few  things  about  love's  young  dream, 

In  the  ancient  kingdom  of  Timbuctoo.  — H.  E.  Russell. 


LOVE  AND  FOREIGN  MISSIONS. 

The  Widow  Brownlow  was  expecting  the  parson.  Something  told 
her  that  he  would  come  that  afternoon,  to  ask  her  a  question,  the 
anticipation  of  which  already  set  her  heart  wildly  beating.  Yes,  the 
widow  was  comely,  and  no  one,  except  the  spiteful  Burdick  sisters, 
blamed  the  parson  for  his  frequent  visits  to  the  Brownlow  home. 
The  widow  was  also  wealthy.  Her  lamented  first  husband  had  made 
a  snug  fortune  in  windmills,  a  fortune  which  she  showed  no  tendency 
to  squander,  except  in  her  one  form  of  dissipation,  foreign  missions. 
Above  her  mantel  hung,  in  a  gold  frame,  a  large  photograph  of  the 
pupils  of  the  Dahomey  School  for  Boys,  with  the  Reverend  Mr.  Budd 
sitting  among  them.  Mrs.  Brownlow  glanced  up  at  the  picture  now, 
but  the  warm  glow  upon  her  dimpled  cheeks  was  not  wholly  due  to  her 
consuming  love  for  the  heathen.  The  Dahomey  School  for  Boys 
had  been  the  darling  of  the  parson's  heart,  and  it  was  in  the  many 
conferences  between  herself  and  that  kindly  gentleman,  over  this 
very  subject  of  the  school,  that  those  affections  had  been  born 
which  the  widow  dared  not  call  by  their  right  name. 

The  widow  was  correct  in  her  expectation.  The  parson  was  even 
now  coming  up  the  gravel  walk  to  the  widow's  door.  But  his  mission 
was  different  from  what  she  was  hoping.  He  was  bent  on  persuading 
her  to  give  twenty-five  dollars  more  toward  putting  a  new  roof  upon 
the  building  occupied  by  the  Dahomey  School  for  Boys.  His  heart  was 
glowing  with  the  thought  of  the  good  work,  and  as  the  widow  looked 
into  his  eyes,  she  blushed.  The  parson  appeared  embarrassed,  and 
dropped  his  eyes.  Surely  it  wasn't  right  for  the  widow  to  give 
all  the  money.  Then  he  thought  of  the  joy  of  giving,  and  determina- 
tion was  seen  in  his  face.     The  widow  noticed  his  abstracted  manner, 

18 


recalled  her  former  experience  of  the  heart,  and  concluded  to  put 
no  stumbling  blocks  in  the  parson's  way.  She  sighed,  and  looked 
dreamily  away  toward  the  pupils  of  the  Dahomey  School  for  Boys. 
The  parson  looked,  too,  and  took  courage. 

"Ah,  Sister  Brownlow,  love  is  a  great  master." 

This  was  excellent:  Exactly  what  her  first  husband  had  said. 
The  parson,  however,  was  thinking  of  the  new  roof. 

"And,  sister,  we  all  need  shelter  and  protection." 

The  widow  closed  her  eyes,  and  took  a  tight  grip  on  the  arms  of 
her  chair.  Yes,  it  was  surely  coming,  after  these  weary  months  of 
waiting.  She  expected,  when  she  opened  her  eyes,  to  see  the  parson 
on  his  knees  before  her.  She  heard  his  voice  lower,  as  he  said,  slowly, 
hesitatingly: 

"I  have  called,  Sister  Brownlow,  to  ask  you  a  question,  an  affirma- 
tive answer  to  which  will  afford  me  much  joy.  Will  you  give  us 
twenty-five  dollars  for  a  new  roof  to  the  Dahomey  School  for  Boys?" 

The  widow  opened  her  eyes,  and  looked  at  the  parson.  He  was 
looking  at  the  picture.  Every  black  face  seemed  to  mock  her.  With- 
out a  word  she  handed  the  parson  the  desired  amount,  then  burst  into 
a  flood  of  tears.     The  parson  was  agitated. 

"My  sister,"  said  he,  "great  indeed  is  your  yearning  for  these 
poor,  lost  lambs.  I  rejoice  to  see  how  great  is  your  love.  It  shall 
be  rewarded  in  heaven." 

After  the  parson  had  gone  a  look  of  stern  indignation  came  into 
the  widow's  face,  as  she  reached  up  and  took  the  picture  from  the 
wall,  and  hurled  the  members  of  the  Dahomey  School  for  Boys, 
Reverend  Budd  and  all,  into  a  shapeless  mass  upon  the  hearth. — H.  E. 
Russell. 


PRINCESS    GOLDEN    HAIR. 

Little  Princess  Golden  Hair, 
With  your  arch  and  queenly  air, 
From  the  first  it  could  be  seen 
You  had  come  to  be  my  queen. 
In  my  memory  I  can  see 
How  you  used  to  gaze  on  me, 
With  your  tresses  tumbling  down. 
With  your  great  eyes  melting  brown, 
Softly  raised  to  shoot  a  dart 
'Gainst  the  armor  of  my  heart, 
Just  as  if  you  did  not  know 
You  had  pierced  it  long  ago, 
And  had  caused  me  keen  delight 
Just  to  serve  you  day  and  night. 

19 


And  to  raise  a  thankful  prayer 
For  your  presence,  Golden   Hair. 

Little  Princess  Golden  Hair, 

Life  with  you  was  rich  and  fair; 

But  my  days  have  empty  grown, 

Since  you  left  me  here  alone. 

As  I  look  across  the  years, 

Blinding  comes  the  mist  of  tears; 

Yet  I  think  those  loving  eyes 

Look  on  me  from  Paradise. 

Often  to  the  grave  I  cry, 

And  the  roses  nod  reply, 

Or  the  lilies,  kissed  by  dew, 

Whisper,  Golden  Hair,  of  you. 

For  my  coming  do  you  wait, 

Sitting  by  the  mighty  gate? 

Will  you  rise  to  greet  me  there, 

Little  Princess  Golden  Hair?  — H.  E.  Russell. 


SINCE   MARY'S   GONE. 

Since  Mary's  gone  the  autumn  days 

Grow  bleak  in  winter's  stormy  breath; 
The  hills,  with  glory  once  ablaze, 

Are  putting  on  the  robes  of  death: 
The  paths  which  we  together  trod, 

Mournful  and  slow  I  tread  alone; 
Her  favorite  flower,  the  golden-rod, 

Is  drooping  now,  since  Mary's  gone. 

Since  Mary's  gone  I  mount  the  hill 

Where  oft  we  walked  when  day  was  o'er. 
I  sit  and  listen  to  the  rill — 

'Twill  echo  to  her  voice  no  more. 
The  pasture  bars  I  view  again, 

Those  rustic  bars  I  sat  upon, 
And  joyed  to  see  her  down  the  lane, 

The  lonely  lane,  since  Mary's  gone. 

At  last  there  came  a  moment  chill 
When  I  must  bid  my  love  adieu. 

A  butcher  man  came  o'er  the  hill, 
And  led  my  Mary  from  my  view. 

A  tear  stood  in  her  lustrous  eye, 

20 


As  to  the  town  she  rambled  on; 
She's  beefsteak  now.     I'll  have  to  buy 

My  milk  condensed,  since  Mary's  gone. — H.  E.  Russell. 


MY  ESKIMO   BABY. 

The  moon  is  hanging  in  the  sky; 

(Sleep,  O  baby  mine.) 
Aurora  Bore  is  shooting  high; 

(Sleep,  O  baby  mine.) 
The  polar  bears  have  homeward  fled, 
The  chubby  seals  have  gone  to  bed, 
So  on  this  snowdrift  rest  your  head. 

(Sleep,  O  baby  mine.) 

Be  quiet  now  and  do  not  cry; 

(Sleep,  O  baby  mine.) 
Your  tears  will  freeze  before  they  dry; 

(Sleep,  O  baby  mine.) 
Your  father's  gone  the  whale  to  spear; 
He'll  bring  some  blubber,  never  fear; 
So  do  not  blubber,  baby  dear. 

(Sleep,  O  baby  mine.) 

Sleep  till  the  morning  paints  the  skies; 

(Sleep,  O  baby  mine.) 
In  three  months  more  the  sun  will  rise; 

(Sleep,  O  baby  mine.) 
And  when  you  wake,  the  morn  to  greet, 
I'll  give  my  baby  something  sweet, 
A  cake  of  Ivory  Soap  to  eat. 

(Sleep,  O  baby  mine.)  — H.  E.  Russell. 


AN  UNJUST  DECISION. 

Spring  and  Winter,  on  a  day, 
Went  a-lawing,  so  they  say; 
Months  were  jurors,  while  the  year 
Sat  as  judge  the  case  to  hear. 
All  the  trouble  was  about 
Who'd  stay  in  and  who'd  stay  out, 
Whether  Winter  might  remain 
Master  over  hill  and  plain, 
Wait  until  his  time  was  gone, 

21 


Ere  he  must  be  moving  on, 
Or  if  Spring,  the  wanton,  might 
Oust  him  from  his  vested  right, 
Make  him  pack  and  move  away 
Long  before  the  moving  day. 

First  old  Winter  rose,  and  he 

Pleaded  long  and  earnestly, 

Showed,   through    force   of   ancient   laws, 

He  had  justice  with  his  cause, 

Brought  forth  precedents  galore, 

Of  decisions  many  a  score, 

Spoke  of  special  rights  reserved, 

Spoke  of  customs  long  observed; 

Till  the  jury,  Winter  knew, 

Thought  the  way  he  wished  them  to, 

While  the  judge  looked  pitying 

Down  at  poor,  outwitted  Spring. 

Spring  arose  with  modest  grace, 

Turned,  and  from  her  blushing  face 

Threw  the  veil.     Ah,  she  was  fair, 

Beautiful  beyond  compare! 

For  the  wealth  of  seasons  old 

Shimmered  in  her  hair  of  gold; 

Never  blue  of  summer  skies 

Matched  the  color  of  her  eyes; 

On  her  lips  the  roses  lay, 

In  her  cheeks  the  pink  of  May, 

And  her  voice  was  like  the  rills 

Singing  in  the  misty  hills; 
'  That  I've  sinned  I  don't  deny, 

Yet  a  woman  weak  am  I." 

O'er  her  sunny  features  swept 

Troubled  clouds,  and  sore  she  wept. 

She  had  won:  the  jurors  rose, 

Loud  the  old  judge  blew  his  nose, 

Slowly  then  the  verdict  read, 
'  Innocent"  was  what  it  said. 

Moral:     Justice  has  no  place 

Where  a  woman's  in  the  case.  — H.  E.  Russell. 


THE  COPELANDS. 

A  visit  from  the   Copelands  of  Freeport  was  always  a  rerl-letter 

22 


day  in  the  uneventful  lives  of  us  children.  We  climbed  to  the  top 
of  the  fence,  and  watched  the  train  go  by,  and  the  nourish  of  a  cap 
from  a  car  window  betokened  that  Arthur  was  there,  and  that  soon 
we  should  see  the  whole  Copeland  family  coming  up  the  sidewalk. 

First  came  Mrs.  Copeland,  with  little  Reggy  at  her  side.  She 
always  advanced  in  state,  her  pink  sun-shade  coquettishly  turned 
against  the  glances  of  amorous  Sol,  who  already  had  left  his  ruddy 
kisses  upon  her  face.  Behind  her  came  Mr.  Copeland,  leading  Bertha 
by  the  hand.  Arthur,  or  Art,  as  he  was  called,  usually  performed 
the  part  of  a  courier,  and  was  already  rattling  at  our  gate  before 
the  rest  of  the  procession  had  come  around  the  corner. 

Mother  always  welcomed  them  from  the  front  veranda,  she  and 
Mrs.  Copeland  never  forgetting  the  customary  form  of  salutation 
among  women.  Father  reached  out  a  friendly  hand  to  the  apologetic 
Mr.  Copeland,  while  we  turned  to  the  children.  Mrs.  Copeland  was 
a  large  woman,  upholstered  in  brown  with  velvet  trimmings,  and 
she  looked  very  pretty  seated  upon  our  new  plush  sofa.  She  con- 
sidered herself  an  invalid,  and  her  talk  was  one  continuous  testimony 
to  the  saving  power  of  pink  pills  for  pale  people. 

Mr.  Copeland,  or  "Doc,"  was  a  veterinary  surgeon,  and  he  bore 
about  with  him  an  odor  that  advertised  his  business.  He  and  father 
usually  sought  the  seclusion  of  the  back  porch,  where  they  could 
smoke  and  talk  about  horse  races  and  the  county  fair.  They  had 
been  boyhood  friends,  therefore  they  often  discussed  ancient  history, 
which  to  me  meant  anything  back  of  my  third  birthday. 

Little  Reggy  was  a  futile  attempt  at  a  Lord  Fauntleroy  on  the  part 
of  Mrs.  Copeland.  He  wore  his  hair  long,  and  had  a  look  of  sweet 
resignation,  as  if  he  wished  his  mamma  used  wool  soap.  Bertha  had 
tangled  yellow  hair  and  large  gray  eyes,  and  she  inspired  me  to  make 
friendly  advances  to  her,  which  she  thereupon  repelled  by  calling  me 
"Smarty,"  intimating  that  I  once  gave  a  party  to  which  only  colored 
people  came. 

Art,  however,  was  a  perennial  spring  of  joy.  He  could  move  his 
ears,  and  he  taught  us  how  to  whistle  through  our  fingers.  He  already 
had  three  warts  on  his  hands,  and  he  could  imitate  a  Kickapoo  Indian 
selling  patent  medicine.  He  told  us  the  whole  story  of  "Brave  Ben, 
the  Boy  Hero  of  the  Mills,"  and  then  did  a  flip-flop  off  the  front 
veranda.  In  mumblety-peg  he  could  do  his  ears  ten  times  without 
missing,  and  he  knew  a  man  that  had  six  fingers  on  each  hand. 

The  Copelands  always  marched  away  in  the  same  royal  fashion  in 
which  they  came,  except  that  Art  brought  up  the  rear  and  waved 
us  a  kindly  farewell  ere  he  disappeared  around  the  corner. — H.  E. 
Russell. 


23 


THE    TOWN    OF    WHITE    PEAK. 

It  seemed  to  have  struggled  up  through  the  Pecos  Valley,  leaving 
here  and  there  at  uncertain  intervals  along  its  way  a  tired  hut  or  two, 
and  at  last  finding  a  place  of  rest  behind  the  foothills  of  the  White 
:  ntains.  Only  one  road  dared  the  blistering  Arizona  sun;  it  crept 
its  way  over  sandhills  and  between  Joshua  trees,  finally  merging 
ilself  in  evident  satisfaction  into  the  lover  of  the  two  streets  inter- 
secting the  town.  That  one  particular  "boulevard,"  as  the  men  called 
it,  r_  n  boldly  a  distance  of  about  three  hundred  yards  when,  being 
met  at  right  angles  by  the  other  and  principal  thoroughfare,  it  lost  all 
confidence  in  itself,  and  scampered  into  various  by-paths  off  over  the 
desert.  But  even  that  main  street  was  not  very  imposing.  It 
wriggled  up  over  the  side  of  the  mountain  in  a  desperate  effort  to 
reach  the  dazzling  summit  of  White  Peak,  and  it  wobbled  so  as 
to  make  its  general  merchandise  store,  blacksmith  shop,  thirteen 
dwellings,  and  five  saloons  almost  topple  back  over  the  slope. 

The  town  of  White  Peak  boasted  four  hundred  inhabitants  and 
about  half  as  many  nationalities,  more  or  less.  Black,  yellow,  red, 
and  white  men  mingled  in  true  western  cosmopolitan  spirit,  knowing 
neither  poor  nor  rich,  ignorant  nor  learned,  plebeian  nor  aristocrat, 
whose  social  code  was  simply  "good  fellowship,"  and  whose  religion 
was  the  Golden  Rule  "unspiled  by  any  extries,"  as  Jake  Connelly 
stated  it.— P.  E.  Thomas. 


MIKE  HANLON'S  FUNERAL. 

Ever  since  the  explosion  in  the  Golden  Gleam  shaft,  gloom  had 
hung  over  the  town  of  White  Peak.  The  loungers  in  the  saloons 
were  as  solemn  as  a  body  of  deliberating  senators.  Men  lost  and 
won  at  the  gaming  tables  with  little  show  of  excitement.  Women 
crouching  in  the  shade  to  escape  the  blistering  heat  whispered  low 
about  the  "mis-workings  of  Providence."  While  he  had  never  been 
eminently  good,  Mike  Hanlon  had  not  been  notoriously  bad.  With 
that  charity  born  of  disaster,  everyone  had  concluded  since  the 
recent  explosion  that,  taking  all  in  all,  he  was  a  good  sort  of  a  fellow, 
and  all  patiently  awaited  the  time  of  the  funeral  (the  first  funeral 
in  the  history  of  the  town)  to  manifest  appropriately  their  regard 
for  the  dead  man. 

The  day  set  for  that  event  dawned  as  had  every  other  for  the 
past  month;  the  sun  stared  out  upon  a  naked  sky  and  a  blistering 
earth.  It  was  the  wish  of  the  town,  as  Joe  Connelly  expressed  it,  that 
"every  thing  in  this  'ere  town  should  be  shut  tight  as  a  drum"  from 
noon  until  after  the  return  from  the  burial  ground,  and  it  was 
rigidly  complied  with.  Promptly  after  the  noon  whistle,  which  di- 
vided their  days  in  two,  men,  women,  and  children  prepared  for 
participation  in  the  ceremony.     The  town  did  not  boast  a  preacher; 

24 


it   indulged   in   "divine  service,"   as  the  signs   road,   on   "t In-   Inst    Sun 
day  of  each  month."  and  as  the  accident   had  happened  on  the  fourth 
day    of    July,    ministerial    help    was    not    available.     But    at    a    called 
meeting   of    the    leading    men    it    was    decided    to    draw    lots    to    select 
one   who   should   officiate   as   "head   man"   at   the   funeral.     The  choice 
fell  upon  Tom  Leverick,  a  Cornishman  of  no  small  dimensions.     Pre- 
cisely  at   three   o'clock    he   was  awaiting   the   arrival    of   the    funeral 
cortege   at    the    open    grave,    "two    hundred    feet    west    of    the    south 
west  corner  of  the  Corral,"  according  to  the  public  notice  previously 
given.      Presently    the     procession    appeared    around    the    corner    of 
the   aforesaid    corral,    and    slowly    wended    its   way    to   the   graveside. 
Six  stalwart  miners,  also  chosen  by  lot,  bore  on  their  shoulders  the 
pine  box  coffin,  and  immediately  behind  them  walked  the  widow  and 
her  nineteen  year-old  son  protecting  his  mother's  bare  head  with  an 
umbrella;    following  them   were   about  twenty  five   friends,   male   and 
female.     The    crowd    around    the    grave    stepped    reverently    aside    to 
allow  room  for  the  mourners.     In  a  silence  broken  only  by  the  occa- 
sional sobbing  of  a  woman  and  by  the  whispered  orders  of  the  men 
who    were   lowering   the   coffin,   Leverick    read    with   deep   intonations 
from  a  scrap  of  paper  he  was  nervously  crumpling: 

"Mike  Hanlon:   born  December  13th,  1859;  died  July  4th.  1899." 
Then  turning  from  this  brief  obituary  to  his  audience,  he  said: 
"  'Ave  henny  of  you  hennything  to  say  about  this   man?     If  so, 
speak  lively." 

Silence  was  the  only  response  to  this  invitation. 
"Cover  'im  up,  boys,"  said  the  improvised  preacher. 
One  woman,  with  a  supersensitive  nature,  shrieked   as  the  clods 
fell  heavily  on  the  box,  a  ghastly  "Amen"  to  the  service;    a  buzzard 
swooped    near   the   coffin,    and    the    great   red   sun  plunged   headlong 
behind  the  western  mountains. — P.  E.  Thomas. 

A  ROOF  GARDEN. 

The  fast  two  o'clock  Northwestern  train  from  Chicago  to  i^vanston 
had  stopped  for  a  few  minutes  between  Clybourn  Junction  and  Deer- 
ing.  Puffing  vigorously  after  its  short,  quick  run,  it  did  not  seem  at 
all  interested  in  the  group  of  girls  playing  in  their  "roof  garden." 
The  name  "roof  garden"  seemed  to  fit  it  well.  Was  it  not  on  the  roof 
of  one  of  those  many  crippled  shanties  that,  standing  on  tiptoe,  in 
winter  try  to  raise  their  heads  above  the  sooty  snow,  and  in  summer 
wrrithe  in  the  dancing  heat  to  catch  the  draft  from  a  passing  train? 
And  was  it  not  a  "garden"?  The  dry  spring  had  blown  enough  dust 
and  soot  to  make  the  "ground"  look  like  a  garden  where  the  flowers 
had  forgotten  to  grow.  But  even  then  it  was  not  entirely  flowerless, 
for  a  broken  tumbler  on  each  of  the  three  walls  not  contiguous  with 
the  main  building  held  a  scrawny,  blossomless  geranium. 

And  here  they  played   in  the  sultry  April  heat,  the  four  ragged 


girls  of  the  slums.  The  shade  from  the  stovepipe  chimney  was  as 
refreshing  as  any  given  by  a  leafy  palm.  The  rhythmic-  rattle  of 
trains  over  the  last  crossing  was  far  more  musical  than  the  mere 
shouts  of  men  at  work  and  the  screams  of  children  at  play  in  the 
streets.  The  plank  stretched  across  the  two  beer  barrels  served  its 
purpose  as  a  seat  as  well  as  any  graceful  chair  that  ever  rocked 
upon  the  green  grass.  Here  where  the  sun  broiled  across  the  minia- 
ture sand  dunes,  here  where  the  afternoon  air  was  thick  with  soot 
and  cinders,  here,  ignorant  of  primrose  fields  and  daisy  meadows  that 
stretch  off  toward  the  wavy  horizon,  these  children  wallowed  in  the 
blistering  dust,  and  pictured  as  their  Paradise  a  larger  but  a  similar 
"roof  garden." — P.  E.  Thomas. 


THE  TRANSPLANTED  NEGRO. 

Having  just  eaten  his  noonday  meal,  he  was  sitting  on  a  pile  of 
lumber  on  the  sunny  side  of  the  street.  For  trousers  he  wore  a 
pair  of  faded  overalls,  whose  tattered  edges  tried  in  vain  to  reach 
below  his  bare  ankles.  A  red  cotton  shirt  hung  loosely  about  his^ 
body,  his  broad  ebony  chest  appearing  prominently  through  his 
neglige  attire.  His  face  was  a  study — round,  shiny,  and  open,  the 
chin  fringed  with  a  whitening  beard,  gleaming  teeth  that  would  have 
done  credit  to  any  dentifrice,  eyes  that,  underneath  his  curly  gray 
hair,  were  saucy  and  sad,  careless  and  thoughtful,  pensive  and  happy, 
all  at  once.  He  was  playing  a  banjo.  Now,  what  Paradise  is  to  an 
angel,  that  a  banjo  is  to  a  negro.  His  bare  feet  dangling  against 
the  lumber  began  to  show  signs  of  emotion.  The  heat  seemed  to 
dance  along  the  pavement  to  the  jerky  tune  of  a  characteristic  strain. 
And  then  musician  and  instrument  soared  away  on  the  rhythmic 
cadence  of  a  plantation  melody.  Off  they  went  on  a  floating  flat- 
boat  with  her  head  pointed  toward  the  Southland.  Gliding  along  a 
waveless  river,  they  slipped  out  into  the  Mississippi.  The  lithe  body 
swayed  to  and  fro  as  again  the  whistles  re-echoed  across  the  cane- 
brakes.  The  lips  broke  into  a  weird  hum  as  the  croonings  of  an 
old  black  mammy  were  heard  in  the  distance.  Dice,  food,  cotton- 
fields,  sunshine,  and  sleep  crowded  their  ecstacies  upon  him  until  he 
almost  lost  the  warning  note  of  the  one  o'clock  factory  bell.  And 
as  he  shambled  off  to  his  work,  we  sympathized  with  his  surly  dis- 
appointment, and  almost  wished  for  his  sake  that  the  negro  had 
not  been  transplanted. — P.  E.  Thomas. 


A    TENEMENT    "HOME." 

If  you  will  grope  your  way  up  four  rickety  flights  of  stairs  that 
are   lighted   at   uneven   intervals   with   sputtering  oil-lamps,   you   will 

26 


come  upon  this  "home."  It  is  stowed  away  at  the  darkest  end  of 
the  passage,  whither  the  reeking  fumes  from  the  other  three  floors 
have  found  a  final  lurking-place.  There  are  but  two  small  rooms,  one 
opening  into  the  other,  and  having  one  door  out  into  the  hallway. 
The  two  windows  which  formerly  served  to  light  these  rooms  are 
now  darkened  by  the  brick  wall  of  a  frowning  factory  that  shoves 
its  shoulder  against  this  tenement  building.  How  the  parents  and 
five  children  can  live  here  is  a  mystery  that  can  be  answered  only 
by  necessity.  The  meal  table  in  the  center  of  the  room,  the  ragged 
couch  in  front  of  the  dimmed  window,  the  oil-stove  in  the  far  corner 
burdened  with  unwashed  cooking  utensils,  and  the  bureau  with  the 
scar  across  the  face  of  its  mirror — all  seem  to  have  combined  to 
appropriate  the  space  to  the  exclusion  of  the  dwellers. 

And  yet  in  this  dingy  prison,  lighted  by  a  candle  that  spits  its 
fickle  flame,  humanity  exists.  Caught  in  the  mills  of  God  that  grind 
so  "exceeding  fine,"  this  little  family,  too  proud  to  become  para- 
sites, too  desperate  to  harbor  despair,  clutches  eagerly  at  the  scarce 
crumbs  that  escape  from  the  lap  of  affluence.  The  neighboring  build- 
ing that  heaves  at  times  with  the  throbbing  of  its  engines  is  a  sleepless 
monitor  over  these  slaves  whose  long  days  are  filled  with  the  whirr 
of  its  wheels  and  the  click  of  its  needles.  Here  in  these  modern  cata- 
combs they  exist,  virtually  buried  in  a  living  death,  the  parents  silent 
in  the  gnawing  poverty,  the  pale-faced  children  fast  growing  old 
in  the  dreary  monotony.  This  is  life  in  the  tenement  "home,"  where 
the  blood  is  spent  to  lessen  the  friction  of  the  tireless  wheels  of 
wealth.— P.  E.  Thomas. 


A  SUMMER  MEMORY. 

It  was  a  drowsy  August  afternoon,  one  of  those  days  when  the 
atmospheric   pressure  seems  to  be  increased  to  thirty  pounds  to  the 
square   inch.     The   hawk   hanging  in   mid-air,   the  mournful  moan  of 
the  distant  dove,  and  even  the  perpetual  hum  of  the  bee  as  it  sipped 
from   the   golden-rod,   lent   to   the   day  a    languid    indolence.     And   so 
the   cool    of   the   woods   was  a   relief   from   the   monotonous   meadow, 
where  the  speargrass   savagely  stabbed  the  naked   feet.     Now  taking 
timid   steps   across   deceptive   marshes,   now   plunging  heedlessly   into 
the  bramble  brake,   now  standing  motionless  watching  the  antics  of 
a   wily    woodpecker,   then   off  again  and   out  toward  the  edge  of  the 
woods,  we  soon  came  to  where  the  warmth  of  the  sun  and  the  shade 
of  the  trees  vied   in  their  attentions  upon  a  blackberry  bush.     Only 
to  look  upon  it  would  have  been  a  sufficient  pleasure:   its  twigs  were 
tangling  in  a  wild  affection,  while  every  leaf  seemed  to  have  wooed 
a   rainbowr   and   to  be   holding   it   secure   in   its  eager  hands.     But  as 
for  the  taste  of  the  berry,  what  shall  dare  comparison?     Could  ever 
a   vine   in   Burgundy   give  so   sweet  a  cordial?     We   were   taken   into 


the  laboratory  of  Summer,  where,  from  this  essence,  she  lent  flavor 
to  every  fruit  on  her  thousand  hills,  for  as  we  lifted  our  lips, 
stained  with  the  purple  nectar  from  Nature's  vintage  from  the  brim- 
ming goblet,  we  had  feasted  on  liquid  sunshine  all  pungent  with  the 
fragrance  of  sweet  brier  and  blossoms,  tremulous  with  the  trill  of 
birds  and  the  music  of  brooks.  Perhaps  man's  prudent  pruning  of 
his  cultivated  fruits  and  his  strange  contrivances  of  steam-pipes  and 
glass-houses  are  triumphs  of  skill,  but  once  in  a  while  I  would  run 
back  over  the  highway  of  Memory,  push  aside  the  overgrowing  tangle 
of  briers,  and  taste  again  the  flavor  of  that  wild  blackberry. — P.  E. 
Thomas. 


THE   VIOLINIST. 

The  large  auditorium  was  filled  with  a  noisy,  restless  crowd. 
We  scarcely  noticed  him  coming  upon  the  stage,  and  his  appearance 
was  greeted  with  only  a  flutter  of  -applause.  Looking  with  dreamy 
eyes  at  his  instrument,  he  tucked  itgglowly  under  his  chin  so  that 
it  rested  snugly  in  the  folds  of  his  silken  muffler,  and  grasped  its 
graceful  neck  with  a  delicate  tenderness.  Then  with  one  long  stroke 
of  the  bow  he  pushed  us  out  toward  unknown  shores.  Speeding  over 
leagues  of  memory,  he  carried  us  back  to  the  land  of  childhood, 
where  again  we  heard  across  the  moor  the  distant,  drowsy  bells. 
Then  the  sails  filled  with  a  breath  of  melody;  we  glided  out  on 
seas  that  at  first  were  languid,  whose  waves  hummed  about  us  in 
idle  unconcern;  in  another  moment  we  heard  the  storm  grumbling 
in  the  distance,  ^intil  it  burst  upon  us  with  a  sudden  fury.  It  rocked, 
it  raved,  it  roared  passionately,  until,  guiding  with  his  magic  bow, 
our  pilot  brought  us  back  to  a  sheltering  land.  The  air  throbbed 
with  music.  When  the  lisping  of  the  stream  was  silenced  within  the 
tangled  home,  doves  moaned  across  the  uplands,  and  the  atmosphere 
was  drenched  with  plaintive  harmonies.  If  the  low  tones  of  the 
autumn  breezes  did  not  murmur  through  the  tree-tops,  then  cadences 
broke  into  tremulous  echoes  till  we  almost  heard  beyond  the  mists 
the  tread  of  angel  feet.  As  he  gently  drew  his  bow  across  the 
swaying  violin,  and  the  last  frail  note  quivered  over  us  in  ecstacy, 
we  were  conscious  that  our  hearts  had  been  the  willing  captives  of 
the  violinist. — P.  E.  Thomas. 


BY  AND   BY. 


There's  a  bonny,  bonny  land  lying-  in  the  By  and  By, 

And  it  stretches  far  beyond  the  largest  reach  of  human  eye, 

Far  beyond  the  hills  and  valleys  where  the  sun  from  gorgeous  pyre 

Lights  the  rim  of  the  horizon  with  a  ruby's  flashing  fire. 

28 


We  shall  rest  beside  the  Streamlets  flowing  through  it.  you  and  1, 
In  that  bonny,  bonny  land  lying  in  the  By  and  By; 
And  the  clouds  shall  be  the  pillows  that  will  rest  the  weary  bead, 
For  the  riot  and  the  uproar  haunting  us  will  then  have  fled. 

We  shall  grow  a  heart  capacious,  holding  room  for  friend  and  foe; 
We  shall  live  the  life  abundant  where  the  kindest  breezes  blow; 
For  the  bonny,  bonny  land  lying  in  the  By  and  By 
Is  a  land  where  nothing  enters  that  can  bring  the  slightest  sigh. 

So  I'm  standing  on  the  hill-top,  and  I'm  peering  in  my  quest 

'Cross  the   misting  meads  and  valleys  stretching  far   out  toward   the 

west. 
Till  the  disappearing  distance  seems  to  mock  me  as  I  try 
To  find  that  bonny  land  lying  in  the  By  and  By.     — P.  E.  Thomas. 


A   PARABLE. 


Once  in  a  far-away  country  long  centuries  ago  there  lived  a 
little  pathway.  Often  in  its  playful  moods  it  roamed  about  the 
village,  running  now  into  the  meadows  and  again  losing  itself  by 
the  stream  that  flowed  down  the  mountain  side.  One  day  the  rocks 
began  to  see  that  the  pathway  lingered  long  by  the  stream,  and 
kept  up  a  close  acquaintance.  The  willows  bent  to  hear  the  con- 
versation, and  this  was  its  burden:  "Why  could  not  the  pathway 
climb  that  rugged  mountain?  It  had  made  so  many  friends  in  dell 
and  meadow;  it  would  make  far  more  if  it  could  but  lead  up  to 
the  summit."  But  the  path  maintained  that  there  was  a  vast  dif- 
ference between  a  meadow  and  a  mountain.  Whereupon  the  stream 
replied  that,  while  the  grade  was  steep,  a  way  had  always  been 
found  over  apparently  insuperable  barriers.  So  the  path  began  the 
ascent.  With  the  cheery  farewell  and  good  wishes  of  the  stream 
ringing  in  its  ears,  it  plunged  boldly  into  the  brushwood.  Wide 
and  willing,  it  ran  off  through  the  grasses.  As  the  grade  became 
steeper  the  path  became  more  timid.  The  darkness  of  a  forest 
tempted  it  to  isolate  itself,  and  it  wandered  therein  as  if  it  would 
live  in  primeval  seclusion.  Then,  remembering  the  assurances  of  the 
stream,  it  appeared  again,  and  continued  the  ascent.  It  struggled 
and  twisted  with  many  contortions  in  its  heroic  efforts  to  reach  the 
top.  Growing  weary  to  despondency,  it  spied  a  precipice  and  wel- 
comed it  as  a  good  place  to  commit  suicide,  and  down  it  plunged 
among  the  rocks.  But  the  echo  of  hopeful  waters  sounded  as  sweet 
music,  and,  picking  itself  up,  it  rose  from  the  ravine  and  climbed  on. 
A  sudden  turn  behind  a  huge  mass  of  boulders  brought  it  to  the 
summit.  And  as  it  looked  at  itself,  thin,  winding,  weak,  such  a 
contrast  to  the  path  that  started,  it  almost  died  from  discouragement, 
when    the    peak    drew   a    cloud    down    over    its    head    and    whispered, 


"If  it  were  not  for  you,  I  could  never  have  been  approached.  A 
little  while  and  you  shall  know  my  meaning."  And  it  was  not  many 
days  after  this  that  a  group  of  tourists  was  heard  to  say,  as  the  dawn 
was  gilding  the  summit,  "Were  it  not  for  that  lone  pathway,  we 
could  never  have  climbed  to  enjoy  the  sunrise." 

He  that  hath  ears  to  hear,  let  him  hear. — P.  E.  Thomas. 


THE  COMING  OF  THE  CONQUEROR. 

No  one  had  really  expected  him.  The  day  before  had  been 
languid  and  lifeless,  so  that  the  world  was  quite  unprepared  for 
his  arrival.  For  a  time  the  skies  resented  what  they  considered 
an  intrusion,  and  sullenly  hid  themselves  behind  mists  and  somber 
clouds.  The  dewdrops  dazzled  as  they  had  through  many  a  summer 
morning.  Warm  zephyrs  ran  playfully  over  the  meadows,  and  the 
lark  winged  into  the  drowsy  skies  unmindful  of  his  approach. 

Enraged  at  such  indifference,  he  blew  from  his  nostrils  a  blast 
of  wind,  scattered  the  meddlesome  clouds,  and  flung  his  flaming 
banners  in  the  east.  Sweeping  across  the  lake,  he  cowed  the  waves 
into  sullen  obedience,  and  drove  the  wild-fowl  screaming  before  him. 
At  the  distant  din  of  his  drums  the  whole  earth  seemed  to  quiver,  and 
when  his  foot  first  touched  the  shore,  every  grass-blade  shuddered 
till  a  bead  of  perspiration  stood  on  the  brow  of  each.  Harnessing 
his  steeds  to  the  north  wind,  he  led  his  brilliant  cavalcade  across 
field  and  forest.  No  ostentatious  parade  was  this;  it* was  a  dash  of 
destruction.  He  hurled  his  pitiless  frosts  upon  a  thousand  gardens, 
and  in  the  place  of  flaunting  flowers  left  only  a  wrecked  beauty. 
In  the  blindness  of  his  rage  he  met  the  summer  sun  smiling  in  the 
grain,  and,  lashing  the  sheaves  with  his  spiteful  showers,  he  gave 
to  the  field  of  wheat  the  semblance  of  a  battle-ground.  Only  for  a 
time  were  the  sturdy  shocks  in  the  corn-field  able  to  withstand  his 
wrath,  for  soon  they  shook  their  golden  sashes  in  a  signal  of  sur- 
render. And  then,  toward  the  close  of  the  day,  he  waved  his  red 
plumes  wildly  in  the  winds,  and  charged  upon  the  obstinate  forests. 
Wherever  he  went  he  left  the  marks  of  the  fray.  The  tiny  leaves 
clung  for  a  time  tenaciously  to  the  elm  and  maple,  but  soon,  pale 
in  death,  they  fluttered  to  the  ground.  And  where  he  could  not 
wholly  win,  he  splashed  his  crimson  blood  on  oak  and  beech  and 
sumach,  leaving  the  tired  trees  swaying  in  the  lull.  Then,  with 
his  flaming  torch  on  high,  he  rode  out  toward  the  west;  behind  him 
he  left  a  moaning  world,  and  through  the  hazy  distance,  by  the 
flare  of  his  angry  torches,  we  still  could  see  Earth  writhing  in  the 
fury  of  the  first  fall  day,  and  we  knew  that  the  advent  of  autumn 
was  the  coming  of  the  conqueror. — P.  E.  Thomas. 


AX    EASTER    PARABLE. 

Once  in  a  far-away  land   there  lived   in  a  cupboard  a   Diimb< 

lily  bulbs.  They  bad  been  tbere  for  a  long  time;  so  long,  in  fact. 
that  they  began  to  get  dissatisfied.  A  little  later,  while  oiip  was 
complaining  of  its  lot.  a  man  took  it  out  of  the  cupboard,  and  bid 
it  in  the  ground.  The  bulb  resented  this  all  the  more.  for.  while 
it  did  not  like  the  cupboard,  such  a  place  was  better  than  all  this 
damp  and  dirt.  And  when  it  complained,  all  the  clods  of  earth 
seemed  to  press  the  heavier  upon  it.  But  the  gardener  listened  to 
all   these  complaints,  and.  bending  low,  he  heard  the  bulb  say: 

"I  feel  I  was  not  made  for  such  a  life  as  this;  it  is  too  cramped  for 

eature  like  me;  I  must  get  relief,  or  I  shall  die.'* 

And  the  only  answer  that  the  gardener  gave  to  that  bulb  was  to 
ro  away  and  return  with  only  more  snow  and  rain.  Then,  bend- 
ing low  again,  he  whispered. 

"If  you  will  strive  in  this  life  below.-  you  shall  later  find  that  it  is 
the  best  thing  for  your  development.  I  have  heard  all  your  cries,  and 
I  have  been  away  to  bring  you  just  what  is  the  best  for  you.  You  shall 
rot  have  one  snow-flake  too  many,  and  you  shall  not  be  kept  down 
here  one  day  too  long." 

And  the  lily  bulb  listened  to  all  this,  and  wondered  what  it  all 
meant.  Patiently  and  persistently  it  allowed  itself  to  grow  in  that 
dark  earth.  The  more  it  opened  to  the  soil,  the  more  it  discovered 
its  own  life,  and  all  the  tiny  rootlets  began  to  thrust  themselves  farther 
down  and  out  into  the  darkness. 

One  day  while  the  bulb  was  busily  trying  to  develop  itself,  a 
stranger  came  into  the  garden,  and  said.  "My  master  hath  sent  me  for 
a  flower  that  is  pure  and  beautiful,"  and.  before  the  lily  bulb  could 
realize  it.  the  gardener  had  taken  it  away  to  bloom  in  another  world. 
I  say  that  this  was  clone  before  the  bulb  could  realize  it,  for  uncon- 
sciously it  had  grown  into  a  lily  on  whose  petals  all  the  snows  had 
left  their  purity  and  to  whose  bloom  had  flown  all  the  fragrance  from 
that  under  world.     "Consider  the  lilies  of  the  field." — P.  E.  Thomas. 


THE    MOUNTAIN    STREAM. 

Although  the  surrounding  mountains  had  always  had  an  angry 
look,  the  little  stream  that  played  about  their  feet  took  little  notice 
of  it.  The  sunlight,  lingering  on  their  faces,  seemed  only  to  deepen 
the  furrows  and  to  make  the  cruel  features  appear  more  prominent. 
Proudly  they  lifted  their  heads  on  high,  and  let  the  harmless  breezes 
play  through  their  beards  of  pine,  but  there  was  with  it  all  an  air 
of  condensation.  Yet  this  apparent  haughtiness  was  not  perceived  by 
he  wandering  mountain  stream.  It  flung  its  spray  audaciously  up 
toward  their  upturned  faces,  and  bade  a  bold  defiance  to  their  frowning 

31 


dignity,  and,  slipping  behind  a  sheltering  rock,  it  winked  up  at  the 
monsters.  And  yet  it  would  not  heed  their  rebuke  of  silence.  The 
sky  was  bright  and  sunny  that  day;  why  should  not  the  stream  be  like- 
wise? Circling  for  a  moment,  it  halted  to  smile  back  to  its  mates, 
and  then  it  hurried  onward  in  its  frolic  of  fun.  It  bounded  over  shal- 
low places  with  many  a  happy  chuckle;  it  stopped  to  whisper  to  a  bald 
old  stone  merely  to  catch  a  breath,  for  in  another  moment  it  leaped 
over  a  waterfall  with  a  roar  of  hearty  laughter,  and  then,  hiding  in 
a  tangled  copse,  it  echoed  back  its  playfulness  to  the  grim  and  unmoved 
mountain. — P.  E.  Thomas. 


SIMPLY  A  TOUR  DE   FORCE. 

Note:  Last  summer  the  Charles  McVea  stuck  in  a  sandbar  off  the 
Michigan  coast.  Various  attempts  to  pull  her  out  were  made  by  the 
"Pup,"  a  small  tug,  and  a  steamer  of  the  line,  called  the  Saugatuck. 
Our  gentle  crew — not  one  swearing,  as  the  passengers  remarked — toiled 
all  night.  But  in  vain!  We  did  not  budge,  until  on  the  morrow  a 
"regular  old  salt,"  the  mate  of  another  vessel,  uttered,  while  assisting 
us,  "a  good  strong  phrase  of  a  deep  dark  blue." 

This  is  the  song 

Of  the  Charles  McVea, 
That  stuck  in  the  sand, 

One  day. 

That  stuck  in   the  sand 
On  the  Michigan  strand, 
Not  eight  hundred  feet  from  land, 
One  day. 

Here's  to  the  crew, 

Of  the  Charles  McVea, 
Who  work  so  well, 

One  day. 

Who  worked  so  well 
Without  saying  sh!    s-"h-ell" 
When   hawsers  broke  and   plummets  fell, 
That  passengers  longed  the  tale  to  tell, 
One  day. 

A   marvelous   tale 

Of  the  Charles  McVea, 
That  shipped  a  crew 

One  day. 

A  saintly  crew, 
Not  one  of  whom  knew 
32 


That  a  good  strong  phrase  of  a  deep  dark  blue 
Is  a  sailor's  talisman,  tried  and  true, 
Gainst  evils  unseen  and  evils  in  view 

And  e'en  for  a  tug  may  stand  in  lieu, 
One  day. 

So  the  gentle  crew 

And  the  Charles  McVea, 
Stayed  stuck  in  the  sand, 
One  day. 

Stayed  stuck  in  the  sand, 
While  the  captain  planned, 
And  the  linesman  blistered  his  horny  hand 
And  the  anxious  passengers  eagerly  scanned 
The  dim  horizon  or  looked  to  the  land, 
Where  the  white  hills  firmly,  mockingly  stand, 
Tempting  and  cool,  by  the  sea-breeze  fanned, 
All  day. 

At  last,   help  came 

To    the    Charles    McVea, 
Help  and  good  luck, 

One    day. 

Help  and  good  luck, 
But  not  by  the  pluck 
Of  the  valiant  "Pup,"  nor  the  Saugatuck, 
But  a  sober  old  "salt,"  who  had  run  amuck 
As  many  times,  or  on  sandbars  stuck, 
Or  deadly  hidden  rocks  had  struck, 
As  any  gay,   roving,  jovial  "buck," 
Who  splices  a  hawser  or  sets  a  truck, 
To-day. 

So  were  he  not  there, 
The  Charles  McVea, 
Had  sounded  her  knell, 
That  day. 

Had  sounded  her  knell, 
But  he  simply  said — well, 
You  know  what  he  said,  I  need  not  tell, — 
And  the  ship  slid  off  on  a  rising  swell; 
As  easy  and  free  as  a  gypsum  bell 
Swings  in  the  wind,  the  a-foresaid  shell, 
Leaped  on  the  wave,  with  a  spirit  to  quell 
Every  imp  that  in  Michigan  sandbars  dwell, 
To-day. 

33 


Thus  the  innocent  crew, 
And  the  Charles  McVea, 

Got  out  of  the  sand, 
One  day. — Harriott  B.  Ely. 


OUT    OF    DOORS. 

A  friend  and  I  started  on  a  bicycle  trip  one  morning  last  summer 
with  the  express  purpose  of  living  out  of  doors  for  a  week.  We  had 
what  was  to  us  a  unique  and  delightful  time.  We  would  go  until  we 
were  tired,  then  drop  off  our  wheels,  pull  out  a  book  or  a  magazine, 
and  read.  When  rested,  we  would  start  on  again,  or,  if  we  found 
riding  too  warm,  we  would  spread  our  oilcloth  blanket  under  a  tree 
in  some  pretty  wood,  and,  using  our  books  for  pillows,  sleep  until  the 
cool  of  the  evening.  Rising  much  refreshed,  though,  I  confess,  at  first 
somewhat  stiff,  we  would  push  on  to  the  nearest  town,  always  manag- 
ing to  make  sure  of  a  bed  and  breakfast.  For  lunches  we  carried 
oatmeal  crackers,  cheese,  and  fruit.  When  hungry,  we  would  ride  up 
to  a  farmhouse  and  ask  the  good  wife  to  sell  us  a  pitcher  of  milk, 
and  allow  us  to  camp  on  her  front  lawn  for  an  hour  or  two — a  permis- 
sion which  she  always  granted,  never  ceasing  to  wonder  that  we  came 
from  nowhere  and  were  going  to  the  same  place — going  nowhere!  We 
lived  with  the  birds.  We  were  present  for  their  matins  and  vespers. 
Do  you  know  the  prodigal  richness  of  a  bird  chorus?  We  could  listen 
to  it  in  all  its  fullness,  uninterrupted  by  an  engine's  shriek  or  a  motor- 
man's  gong,  the  dread  of  which  always  haunts  me,  even  in  my  most 

secluded  walks  about  B .     So  through  the  long  day  we  could  hear 

the  constant  cheery  cadenza  of  the  song-sparrow,  the  distant  caw  of 
the  crow,  the  plaintive  whistle  of  the  meadowlark,  or  the  elusive, 
hypnotic  gurgle  of  the  catbird,  nature's  most  accomplished  ventrilo- 
quist. I  should  like  to  spend  a  whole  summer  in  this  way.  Oh,  the 
joy  of  being  entirely  free — free  from  every  conventional  restraint, 
free  to  speak  or  to  be  silent,  to  sing  or  to  weep,  to  shout  aloud  for 
very  joy  of  proving  the  after-silence,  or  to  murmur  softly  with  the  hid- 
den brook,  or  to  kneel  and  chant  a  prayer  to  the  giver  of  all  beautiful 
life,  in  his  own  best  cathedral,  the  shade  of  a  spreading  tree! — Harriott 
B.  Ely. 

IN    A    BASEMENT. 

Midnight!  All  is  dark,  save  on  the  dank  walls  a  faint  reflection 
from  the  sickly  yellow  flare  of  a  kerosene  lamp  on  the  street  above. 
A  mother  kneels  beside  a  rude  pallet  where  lies  a  child.  Listen!  was 
that  a  sob?  Another?  and  another!  The  child  stirs  uneasily  at  the 
sound.  The  sobs  cease,  and  he  sleeps  again;  but  the  mother  continues 
to  kneel;  yes,  even  with  her  forehead  on  the  cold  floor.  Does  she 
pray?    No;  she  has  long  ceased  to  pray  as  others  do.    God  knows  her 

34 


heart.  It  is  a  prayer,  a  prayer  that  she  may  die  and  that  little  Paul 
may  die.  Five  years  ago  she  had  not  thought  to  pray  thus,  when  happy 
and  proud  she  gave  herself  to  one  she  loved — to  him  who  has  led  her 
down  to  all  that  makes  life  black,  to  misery,  to  poverty,  to  sin.  Throe 
days  ago  she  stole  the  bread  that  kept  little  Paul  from  starving.  She 
might  have  begged  it!  Yes;  she  might  have  begged  it,  but  she  did 
not;  she  stole  it.  Now  it  is  gone.  Steal  more,  she  dare  not;  beg,  she 
will  not;  work,  she  can  not.    O  God,  let  her  die! — Harriott  B.  Ely. 


BY    THE     SEA. 

If  you  want  to  find  yourself  and  God  and  nature,  spend  a  summer 
on  an  island  in  the  ocean.  And  if  you  can  choose  the  island,  let  it 
be  Cushing's,  the  outermost  one  of  the  three  hundred  twenty-five  in 
Casco  Bay.  After  you  have  landed  at  the  cove  in  a  heavy  fog,  and 
have  groped  your  way  through  the  willow-dells  and  over  the  butter- 
cup meadow,  and  have  climbed  the  hill  to  what,  at  first,  seems  to 
you  a  barren  hotel,  set  upon  a  rock  like  the  lighthouse  yonder,  to 
warn  off,  rather  than  to  invite  approach;  and  after  you  have  stood 
for  three  shivering  days  upon  its  deserted  verandas,  and  have  listened 
to  the  hollow  lapping  of  the  sea,  and  have  cuddled  for  three  shivering 
nights  in  the  spacious  chimney-corner — too  spacious  for  you — and 
have  watched  the  blazing  pine-knot,  and  have  blinked  at  the  old- 
fashioned  fire-dogs  until  your  eyes  ache;  then,  go  to  bed  and  get  up 
the  next  morning  with  the  first  beams  of  the  new  sun,  and  hurry  down 
upon  the  beach,  or  rather  out  upon  the  rocks,  for  we  have  no  beach 
except  on  the  western  side  beyond  the  cove,  as  our  little  island  is 
truly  "rock-bound" — hurry,  I  say,  for  the  great  sun  travels  fast,  once 
he  has  lifted  his  head  above  the  water;  and  besides,  the  tide  will  soon 
follow,  and  I  want  you  to  see  the  beauties  left  by  last  night's  ebb, 
before  they  are  swept  away.  Here  is  the  devil's  apron-string,  the  sea- 
serpent  of  many  an  awful  dream;  here  are  the  tiny  limpets  clinging  to 
the  rocks,  waiting  for  the  incoming  tide  to  release  them;  here  are  the 
periwinkles  exquisite  in  form  and  color,  revealing,  no  less  than  the 
rainbow,  the  touch  of  the  Artist's  hand.  Come,  we  will  clamber  over 
the  rocks  to-day,  and  think  God's  thoughts  after  Him.  Is  not  this  one 
of  God's  thoughts,  this  tiny  pool  of  water  in  the  lap  of  this  high  rock? 
Sea-urchin  and  anemone  and  starfish,  soft  green  and  softer  pink,  blue 
of  sky  and  white  of  rock,  life  and  form  and  color — surely,  God  has 
thought  them!— Harriott  B.  Ely. 


ONLY  AN  INCIDENT. 

Seven  o'clock.  The  whistle  blows.  The  great  building  begins  to 
throb  with  the  beat  of  machinery.  Another  working-day  has  begun 
for  the  five  hundred  women  and  men,  girls  and  boys,  in  the  box-factory. 

35 


Another  working-day  like  the  three  hundred  and  ten  that  have  gone 
before,  like  the  three  hundred  and  ten  that  will  follow,  with  the 
whistle  of  gliding  belts;  the  drone  of  revolving  wheels;  the  click  of 
adjusting  tables;  the  hiss  of  knives;  the  troll  of  reels;  the  buzz,  the 
whiz,  the  burr;  the  grinding,  the  whirring,  the  everlasting,  never- 
pausing  turn,  turn,  turn.  Clash!  Thud!  What  is  that?  The  pon- 
derous machine  stops,  shivers,  starts  again.  Turn,  turn,  turn.  It  is 
nothing.  Only  a  girl  has  lost  a  hand  beneath  a  relentless  knife.  Boxes 
must  be  made.  Let  the  work  go  on.  Turn,  turn,  turn.  "A  very  little 
girl.  Her  right  hand,"  you  tell  me?  Never  mind,  she  will  learn  to  use 
her  left.  Such  people  always  do.  We  have  had  scores  of  accidents  on 
the  same  machine.  Turn,  turn,  turn.  "Mary  Brown,"  you  say  her 
name  is,  "and  she  has  three  sisters  in  the  factory?"  Good!  The  "firm" 
will  pay  the  doctor's  bill.  Turn,  turn,  turn.  Boxes  must  be  made. — 
Harriott  B.  Ely. 

A    PROBLEM. 

Two  boys  are  born  in  Bridgeport,  the  one  on  "Archery  Road,"  the 
other  on  Ashland  Avenue.  As  children  they  play  together  in  the  filthy 
street,  on  the  still  more  filthy  yard.  Together  they  go  to  the  grammar 
school  to  be  the  dread  of  incompetent  teachers,  whom  they  hate,  and 
by  whom  they  in  turn  are  hated.  Together  they  leave,  to  work  in  the 
rolling  mill,  that  fiery  monster  which  every  morning  swallows  hun- 
dreds of  their  fellow  creatures,  and  every  evening  disgorges  them 
again,  black  and  misshapen.  The  boys  have  little  chance  for  improve- 
ment either  of  mind  or  body,  and  that  little  they  disregard.  They 
read  trashy  novels,  and  sing  trashy  songs.  They  swear,  they  gamble, 
they  drink,  they  spend  their  evenings  in  the  dance-hall  or  the  beer- 
saloon,  either  of  which,  to  tell  the  truth,  is  pleasanter  than  their 
homes.  It  is  in  the  saloon  that  we  find  them  now,  seated  at  a  small 
oilcloth-covered  table,  fumbling  a  pack  of  greasy  cards;  beside  them 
stand  two  glasses  of  beer,  that  American  beer  which  makes  drunk, 
two  pipes,  and  a  pile  of  dollars.  They  are  playing  for  large  stakes 
to-night,  since  this  has  been  pay-day.  One  may  well  know  the  fact; 
for  the  green  baise  door  never  ceases  to  swing,  while  workingmen  of 
all  ages  shuffle  in;  some  merely  to  get  an  evening  draft;  others  to 
wipe  out  an  old  score,  and  to  begin  a  new  one;  still  others  to  drink 
and  to  lounge,  to  tell  stories  and  to  complain  of  the  government,  or 
mayhap  to  watch  our  players.  But  the  two  boys  are  hardly  playing 
now.  They  are  quarreling;  for  both  are  drunk,  and  one  so  far  that  he 
knows  little  else  than  that  his  companion  is  winning.  Faster  and 
faster  fall  the  cards  on  the  table,  until  the  last  comes  down  with  a 
thump  and  a  mighty  oath,  while  the  words  "cheat"  and  "thief"  spring 
to  the  player's  lips;  but  no  sooner  than  his  companion's  fingers  to  his 
throat;  and  then, — together  they  roll  upon  the  floor  in  a  drunken 
brawl. 

36 


Such   is  the  sixth   ward,   and  the  young  men's  name   is  legion! 
Students  of  sociology,  what  will  you  do  about  it? — Harriott  B.  Ely. 


THE  GOLDEN  CROWNED  KINGLET. 

The  golden-crowned  kinglet — do  you  know  him?  An  exquisite 
creature!  The  tiniest  of  our  winter  birds,  excepting  the  wren;  in 
fact,  with  the  exclusion  of  the  hummingbird,  the  tiniest  of  all.  He  is 
just  four  inches  in  length,  from  the  tip  of  his  little  black  bill  to  the 
farthermost  edge  of  his  daintily  notched  tail.  His  wings  are  brown; 
his  back  olive-green;  his  breast  dull  white;  his  head — ah!  he  is  a 
kinglet,  indeed.  The  tiny  head  bears  a  royal  crown,  golden  and  orange 
and  black.  His  Wee  Majesty,  though  fragile  in  appearance,  is,  never- 
theless, a  hardy  little  fellow,  visiting  us  only  when  summer  is  well 
gone,  and  leaving  us  early  in  the  spring. 

This  winter  visitor  has  two  "sworn  friends,"  the  chickadee-dee 
and  the  nuthatch.  Almost  any  cold  day,  you  may  see  the  three  feeding 
among  the  pines  and  cedars.  The  chickadee  in  a  dashing  black  cap 
and  immaculate  collar,  the  sombre  nuthatch  in  quaker-blue,  and  our 
kinglet,  truly  regal,  in  his  glorious  crown.  Listen  to  their  songs.  That 
"artless  little  whistle,"  repeated  two  or  three  times,  can  belong  to 
none  other  than  his  Diminutive  Majesty;  the  "day-day-day"  to  Master 
Titmouse,  of  course;  and  the  "quank,  quank"  to  the  quaker.  The  two 
friends  stay  with  us  the  year  round,  but  our  kinglet  asserts  his  royal 
prerogative  to  see  the  world.  Wherever  he  goes  he  has  willing  sub- 
jects. His  gentle,  well-bred  manner  and  his  altogether  charming  and 
naive  address  win  the  heart.  If  you  do  not  know  His  Highness,  be 
presented;  and  you  will  own  yourself  a  captive  to  his  four  inches  of 
exquisite  loveliness. — Harriott  B.  Ely. 


"THE  LOUD  SUM  OF  THE  SILENT  UNITS." 

They  were  waiting  for  the  train.  Mrs.  L'Argent  as  tall  and  as 
proud  and  as  elegantly  attired  as  Mrs.  L'Argent  always  is  in  a  heavy 
black  gown  of  richest  texture,  sealskin  jacket  with  comfortable  collar, 
dainty  boots,  exquisite  gloves,  and  hat — enough  to  say  that  the  price 
of  the  hat  would  have  kept  in  clothes  for  a  year  the  shabbily  dressed 
little  woman  at  Mrs.  L'Argent's  side.  Shabbily,  but  not  slovenly, 
dressed.  The  old  skirt  was  well  brushed,  well  bound  around  the  bot- 
tom, and  well  adjusted  at  the  waist;  the  jacket,  though  it  made  no 
pretense  10  style,  it  was  confessedly  five  years  old,  fitted  as  nicely 
according  to  its  own  fashion  as  did  its  sealskin  rival. 

I  looked  at  the  faces  of  the  two  women.  The  one  was  patrician 
in  every  outline,  indisputably  handsome,  with  delicate  skin  that 
showed  the  quick  coming  and  going  of  the  blood,  but  haughty,  and,  as 
I  judged,  hard  in  expression;   the  other,  unmistakably  plebeian,  with 


deep  lines  of  care  upon  the  brow  and  about  the  mouth,  which  drooped, 
often  no  doubt  from  sheer  weariness  of  body,  but  with  a  cheery  look 
in  the  eyes  that  bespoke  a  brave  spirit. — We  waited.  As  the  station 
clock  ticked  measuredly  on,  I  thought  of  the  inequalities  of  life. — 

Mrs.  L'Argent  arose  with  a  rustling  of  silk;  the  other  woman  arose. 
Was  that  a  nutter  of  envy  over  her  countenance?  Tell  me,  ye  of  the 
limp  skirt  and  last  year's  jacket.  Whatever  the  feeling,  it  passed  as 
it  came,  like  a  shadow;  when  the  door  suddenly  opened,  and  a  beautiful 
child,  a  girl  of  ten  or  twelve,  ran  to  the  little  woman  with  the  sweet 
words,  "Mother  dear,  I'm  glad  you're  not  gone;  I  want  my  good-by 
kiss."  As  the  mother  stooped  to  her  child,  I  glanced  at  Mrs.  L'Argent. 
Sometimes  it  is  given  us  to  see  a  soul.  I  saw  hers.  I  shall  never  forget 
the  yearning,  love-hungry  look  in  her  proud  eyes. — 

We  waited.  As  the  station  clock  ticked  measuredly  on,  I  thought 
of  the  strange  balance  of  life. — Harriott  B.  Ely. 


AN   ARISTOCRAT. 

Among  my  winter  acquaintances,  I  hardly  dare  say  friends,  I 
count  the  snowbird.  Not  the  saucy,  blackcapped  Titmouse  with  his 
plebeian  manners  and  confiding  ways,  though  I  love  him,  too;  but  his 
older,  more  refined  and  stately  brother,  the  patrician,  Herr  von  Junco 
Hyemalis,  whose  name  bespeaks  him.  Sedate,  modest,  proper,  he 
moves  among  his  fellows.  Always  when  I  have  seen  him,  he  has  been 
clad  in  a  dark,  faultlessly  fitted  suit,  with  coat  slightly  cut  away, 
revealing  a  vest  of  finest  texture,  immaculate  and  convincing.  Nothing 
derogatory  is  meant.  Not  much  given  to  patrician  garb  or  manners 
myself,  when  I  see  them  in — or  shall  I  say  on? — others  with  whom 
they  comport,  I  bow  down  and  admire.  But  facetiousness  aside!  for  it 
is  with  genuine  delight  that  I  watch  our  aristocratic  snowbird  pick  his 
dainty  way  among  the  drifts.  If  you  are  a  lover  of  color  in  the  dead 
white  of  winter,  you,  too,  will  rejoice  in  his  pink  bill  and  ruddy  legs, 
thankful  that  in  his  severe,  yet  it  must  in  justice  be  added,  ever-pleas- 
ing and  graceful  sedateness,  he  did  not  forget  the  one  dash  of  objective 
gladness  that  makes  all  nature  kin. — Harriott  B.  Ely. 


ONLY    A    SPARROW. 

Yes;  only  a  chipping  sparrow,  one  of  the  meanest  of  its  kind. 
Give  the  little  dead  thing  to  me.  See!  I  can  cover  it  with  my  hand. 
Small  matter  that  it  should  die.  And  yet — "not  a  sparrow  falleth  to 
the  ground" — you  know  the  rest.  I  wonder  if  He  really  cares;  for  this 
is  a  tiny  creature,  in  length  only  a  bit  over  five  inches,  and  slender, 
too!  the  little  body  could  not  hold  mueh  life.  No;  not  much,  but  a 
part  of  the  Infinite;  for  the  Great  Father  lives  in  his  earth-children! 
It  is  His  life  that  the  careless  stone  has  sent  thither,  a  manifestation 

38 


of  Him,  that  is  gone.    And  was  it  not  a  beautiful  manifestation,  though 
as  modest  as  the  still  small  voice,  but  likewise  as  sure? 

In  the  middle  of  August,  under  the  heat  of  noon,  when  no  other 
voice  was  heard,  the  chipping  sparrow  has  spoken  to  me  of  God.  I 
have  seen  the  little  bird,  on  a  city  telephone  wire  in  the  blazing  sun- 
light, sit  and  sing  until  he  must  pant  for  breath,  until  I  thought  he 
must  give  over  his  resolution  to  tell  the  joy  of  the  world,  and  must 
seek  the  shade  and  comfort.  But  his  comfort  came  in  singing.  Not 
a  beautiful  song,  but  a  cheery.  The  infinite  within  him  knew  the  Infi- 
nite, and  all  was  well.  And  as  he  sang,  a  ditch-digger  lifted  a  weary 
face,  and  smiled!  And  I  too  smiled  and  said,  "Not  a  sparrow  liveth 
without  the  Father." — Harriott  B.  Ely. 


THE    POWER    OF    THE    WRITTEN    WORD. 

In  the  year  one  thousand  and  eight,  on  a  summer's  afternoon,  in 
the  beautiful  land  of  Iran,  within  a  far-echoing,  many-pil- 
lared hall,  leaning  against  one  of  the  columns,  his  arms 
crossed  over  his  breast,  his  turbaned  head  bowed  low,  stands 
a  venerable  man,  a  poet.  To-day  sees  the  end  of  thirty  years 
of  toil.  The  great  "Shah  Nama"  is  finished.  It  has  been  presented  to 
Sultan  Mahmud,  and  the  aged  poet  awaits  the  fulfilment  of  the  royal 
pledge,  the  means  whereby  he  may  benefit  in  a  practical  way  his 
fellow  men.  He  has  written  all  these  years  in  the  love  of  the  work, 
he  has  written  to  himself  and  for  himself,  his  higher  self,  surely,  but 
still  himself;  and  yet  before  it  all  and  through  it  all,  he  has  longed 
to  do  for  others.  He  has  loved  God  and  his  fellow-creatures,  both  dumb 
animal  and  human.  And  as  the  years  have  passed,  he  has  resolutely 
refused  all  money  offered  him  by  Mahmud,  saying  only,  "Let  the  gold 
be  put  aside  until  my  work  is  done;  then  will  I  take  it,  that  I  may 
bless  my  people."  And  Mahmud  promised.  So  to-day  the  poet  wait3 
the  redemption  of  the  pledge,  the  accumulated  wealth  that  shall  enable 
him  to  build  a  canal  through  his  thirsty  land.  But  his  anxious  soul 
already  anticipates  his  disappointment.  He  knows  that  the  crafty  vizir 
is  inimical  to  him.  He  knows  that  Mahmud  is  weak  and  is  led  by 
his  wily  councilor;  and  so,  with  folded  arms,  and  head  bowed  in 
prophetic  vision,  the  poet  sees  his  future;  his  ignominy,  his  flight, 
his  death;  but  hardest  to  bear,  he  sees  the  failure  of  his  dream.  His 
life  has  been  in  vain..  True,  he  has  loved  his  work,  and  has  worked 
well,  but  he  has  toiled  for  the  few  who  could  read,  when  he  longed  to 
toil  for  the  many,  the  oppressed  ones,  the  tiller  of  the  soil,  the  tender 
of  the  vine,  the  driver  of  the  camel.  And  now?  Well  now,  the  "Book 
of  Kings"  is  written,  but  the  poet's  hope  is  dead! 

Yet  wait!  God  can  wait.  He  can  wait  eight  hundred  and  twenty- 
four  years  to  complete  a  life.  He  can  wait  until,  in  a  land  far  distant 
from  Iran,  a  young  man  full  of  life  and  power,  but  apparently  started 
on  a  mad  career  of  gambling  and  of  bear-hunting,  picks  up  the  book 

39 


of  the  Persian  poet,  and  reads.     And  then?     And  then  Hungary  has  a 
Kossuth,  and  the  world  a  synonym  for  patriot! — Harriott  B.  Ely. 


THE  ORIGIN  OF  HOARFROST. 

There  was  once  a  little  flower  that  grew  by  a  mossy  stone  in  the 
forest.  She  was  so  lovely  a  flower  that  every  noon  the  bold  sun 
climbed  high  up  in  the  sky,  so  that  he  might  look  down  upon  her 
winsome  face;  and  every  night  the  more  distant  stars  gazed  down 
upon  her  pure  features  in  silent  admiration.  The  rude  glances  of  the 
sun  made  her  blush  and  hang  her  head,  but  she  welcomed  the  stars 
with  her  steadfast,  beautiful  eyes. 

One  evening,  as  the  shadows  gathered  their  thick  wings  and  settled 
to  sleep  in  the  trees,  a  dewdrop,  straying  with  the  night  wind  through 
the  forest,  found  a  welcome  in  the  fragrant  breath  of  the  little  flower, 
and  fell  asleep  in  her  bosom.  And  the  dewdrop  was  very  happy;  for 
he  fondly  dreamed  that  he  would  never  leave  her,  but  would  live  for- 
ever beside  the  mossy  stone,  beneath  the  sleeping  shadows  in  the  forest. 
But  when  the  bold  sun  began  his  daily  climb  to  look  upon  the  face  of 
the  little  flower,  the  dewdrop  trembled,  and  his  heart  grew  faint  with 
dread  of  his  great  rival.  And  as  the  bold  sun  gazed  down  upon  the 
little  flower,  his  anger  blazed  against  the  favored  dewdrop,  and  swept 
him  away,  far,  far  away  from  the  little  forest  flower.  Then  the  dew- 
drop  was  very  sad;  and  he  wandered  up  and  down,  up  and  down, 
brooding  over  the  loss  of  his  little  flower;  and  his  whole  thought  was 
how  he  might  find  her  again.  But  he  sought  and  sought;  yet  never 
could  he  find  the  trees  where  the  thick-winged  shadows  slept,  nor  the 
little  flower  beneath,  welcoming  him  with  fragrant  breath.  One  night, 
when  the  air  was  very  still  and  cold,  as  still  and  as  cold  as  the  hope 
in  the  heart  of  the  dewdrop,  he  saw  again  the  tree  with  the  sleeping 
shadows;  but  no  little  flower  beneath  welcomed  him  with  fragrant 
breath,  for  her  place  was  vacant.  Then  the  dewdrop  bowed  his  head, 
as  he  looked  upon  the  place  where  she  had  been,  and  his  heart  grew 
still  and  cold,  as  still  and  as  cold  as  despair. 

When  next  the  dawn  entered  the  forest,  she  looked  with  admira- 
tion upon  a  tiny  fleck  of  ice  on  a  mossy  stone,  for  it  bore  the  shape  of 
a  lovely  little  flower. — Abbie  Florence  Williams. 


THE    POINT    OF    VIEW. 

All  night  long  the  fairies  of  the  frost  toiled  over  the  surface  of 
the  plate  glass  window  in  the  hall,  designing  wonderful  scenes,  and 
crystallizing  their  fairy  fancies  into  marvelous  frost  work,  that  owed 
the  mysterious  touch  in  its  beauty  to  the  wandering  moonbeams  caught 
and  imprisoned  in  its  intricate  arabesques.  By  dawn  their  task  was 
completed,  and  none  too  soon,  for,  as  the  watching  clouds  signaled  the 

40 


approach  of  the  sun.  old  winter  pulled  on  his  furs,  and  started  out  to 
inspect  the  work  of  his  elfin  artists.  Pausing  before  the  pane,  while 
the  sunbeams  danced  and  flashed  over  a  thousand  perfected  stars  in  the 
dazzling  ice  creation,  the  stern  old  critic  adjusted  his  spectacles,  and 
tugged  approvingly  at  his  beard. 

But  he  was  not  the  only  one  to  notice  the  skill  of  the  frost  fairies; 
for  the  baby,  on  her  way  to  breakfast,  stops  at  the  window,  spreads 
out  her  warm,  pink  fingers  on  the  pane,  flattens  her  nose  against  it, 
and  cautiously  puts  out  her  tongue.  "  Tisn't  sweet  at  all!"  she  says  in 
disgust,  and  runs  out  to  her  porridge.  Next,  Fred  dashes  down  on  his 
way  to  school,  and  stands  at  the  window,  watching  for  the  car.  "Hullo, 
there's  the  battle  Clark  fought,  as  I'm  alive!"  he  exclaims,  and  is 
deep  in  tracing  the  line  of  the  Wabash,  the  straggling  village,  the 
rough  stockade,  the  Indian  skirmishes,  the  puffs  of  smoke  from  their 
guns — when  he  hears  his  car,  and  rushes  off.  Later  in  the  morning, 
Jane  passes  through  the  hall  on  her  way  to  the  music  room,  and 
stops  to  exclaim  at  the  beauty  of  the  miniature  scenes  etched  upon 
the  glass;  here  a  lofty  castle  on  a  crag,  below,  a  drowsy  hamlet  with 
its  modest  spire  and  humble  cottages;  here  farms  with  their  com- 
fortable houses  and  barns,  beyond,  populous  cities,  the  smoke  hang- 
ing low  over  their  factories;  here  a  range  of  snowclad  peaks,  there  a 
summer  lake;  here  stretches  of  impenetrable  forests,  there  meadows 
of  forget-me-nots,  smiling  up  at  a  heaven  of  stars.  When  school  is 
over,  Kate  brings  her  fairy  tales,  and  ensconces  herself  in  the  window 
seat;  but  soon,  in  some  mysterious  way,  kings  and  shepherdesses, 
princes  and  mermaids,  fairies  and  giants  and  elves  all  leave  the  book 
and  scatter  over  the  pane  in  groups  of  new  and  absorbing  interest. 
In  the  twilight,  stately  Aunt  Elizabeth  lets  her  work  fall  into  her 
lap,  and  is  gazing  idly  at  the  window,  when  something  in  its  tracings 
catches  her  attention.  Raising  her  lorgnette,  she  looks  intently  at  a 
scene  sketched  upon  the  glass;  a  familiar  place,  it  seems;  and  a 
strange  expression  steals  over  the  usually  impassive  face.  The  twi- 
light fades,  and  the  moonbeams  creep  clown  to  comfort  their  imprisoned 
comrades.  A  quaint  old  church,  the  snow-covered  road,  the  gravestones 
on  the  hill,  to  the  left,  a  single  marble  shaft  gleaming  in  the  cold 
moonlight — the  scene  is  blurred — the  proud  old  head  bends  over  the 
trembling  hands. — Abbie  Florence  Williams. 


A  TOAST  TO  THE  '01  PONY. 

How  dear  to  each  heart  are  the  scenes  of  Northwestern 
When  banqueting  seniors  recall  them  to  view! 

The  lake  shore,  the  campus,  the  broad-arching  oak  trees, 
And  every  loved  spot  that  our  college  days  knew. 

The  handsome  old  halls — and  the  wheel  racks  before  them — 
The  walks,  and  the  slide  where  the  "profs"  even  fell, 

41 


The  fences,  the  flag-staff,  the  classrooms,  the  courses, 
And  e'en  the  old  pony  that  bore  us  so  well. 

The  ragged  old  pony,  the  faithful  old  pony, 
The  oft-ridden  pony  that  bore  us  so  well! 

That  dusty  old  pony  I  hail  as  a  hero; 

For  oft,  in  the  dullness  that  "eight  o'clocks"  know, 
I  found  him  the  source  of  an  exquisite  pleasure, 

The  purest  and  sweetest  that  learning  can  show. 
How  gladly  I  caught  him,  with  eyes  that  were  glowing, 

And  turned  to  the  waiting  "prof,"  eager  to  tell 
The  answer;   then  reined  in  my  quick-breathing  fancy, 

And  patted  the  pony  that  bore  me  so  well. 
The  ready  old  pony,  the  rugged  old  pony, 

The  trusty  old  pony  that  bore  me  so  well! 

How  sweet  was  the  smell  of  his  breath  to  the  athlete, 

When,  back  from  the  "gym"  all  in  clover  he  rode; 
And,  after  the  dance,  how  rejoiced  was  the  "coed," 

Her  pony  so  willingly  carried  his  load. 
In  some  of  the  courses  his  work  was  dead  easy, 

And  he  cantered  through  "Hygiene,"  and  cut  a  great  swell; 
But  there  're  others:  and  "English"  had  thirty-nine  hurdles, 

And  he  stumbled,  the  pony  who'd  borne  us  so  well! 
The  horrified  pony,  the  crestfallen  pony, 

The  poor,  stupid  pony  who'd  borne  us  so  well! 

Sometimes  he  went  softly,  and  none  guessed  his  presence; 

Sometimes  he  would  pace  like  the  text  to  a  T; 
And  again  would  the  sound  if  his  hoofs  in  their  thund'ring 

Beat  the  "profs"  like  the  carpenter's  shop  in  Old  C. 
As  "freshies"  we  rode  him,  then  sometimes  unruly; 

As  "Sophs,"  who  the  skill  we  acquired  can  tell; 
As  "Juniors"  we  worked  him;  and,  now  we  are  Seniors, 

He  is  only  a  shadow  that  bore  us  so  well. 
The  ragged  old  pony,  the  jaded  old  pony, 

The  battered  old  pony  that  bore  us  so  well! 

Soon,  soon  he  will  slip  from  his  worn  sides  the  burden; 

Soon  for  us  all  he  will  run  his  last  race; 
Pew  are  the  days  he  will  yet  heed  our  calling; 

Short  is  the  time  we  shall  yet  see  his  face. 
Then  here's  to  his  memory,   here's  to  his  pasturing; 

— Let  us  not  shame  on  his  service  to  dwell — 
As  hard  was  his  labor,  so  soft  may  his  rest  be; 

The  gallant  old  pony  that  bore  us  so  well! 
The  ragged  old  pony,  the  tattered  old  pony, 

The  dog-eared  old  pony  that  bore  us  so  well! 

42 


ONE    SONG. 

Upon  the  hearth  the  blazing  faggots  lie, 
Whose   spicy   breath  tells  the  poetic   pine, 
Now  reft  from  his  estate  in  forest  fine 

To  shed  his  treasured  sunlight  in  the  eye 

Of  winter.     Troops  of  sparks  go  eddying  by 
Or  form  in  mazy  circles  or  in  line 
To  dance  with  shadows,  tripping  with  the  sign 

The  music  sounds;  then,  even  in  dancing,  die. 

And  what  the  melody  that  leads  and  sways? 
The  song  sung  by  the  flames,  now  rising  high 
With  laughter,  and  now  hushed  with  wailing  low: 
The  song  they  heard  in  happy  summer  days 
Sung  by  the  wind  in  wanton  minstrelsy 

To  please  the  pines,  they  sing  'mid  winter's  snow. 

— Abbie  Florence  Williams. 


THREE     VIEWPOINTS. 

The  Rose's  View — 

Ah,  it  is  a  blessed  thing  to  live;  for  the  earth  is  warm,  the  sun 
smiles  brightly,  the  water  is  sweet  and  refreshing,  and  all  a  rose  need 
do  is  just  to  lift  her  head  and  breathe  out  the  fragrance  that  God  has 
instilled  into  her  heart.  Then  the  air  grows  rich  with  blessing  as  its 
soft  wings  hover  round  her;  for  it  seems  that  the  more  she  gives,  the 
more  amply  she  is  repaid;  and  now,  even  now,  the  fondest  dream  that 
ever  stirred  my  baby  petals  is  my  waking  joy  as  I  am  gathered  by  this 
fair  young  girl  to  lie  upon  her  bosom,  where  I  may  feel  her  sweet 
breath,  and  may  listen  to  the  joyous  beating  of  her  glad  young  heart. 
Others  can  only  see  her  face;  but  my  life  is  so  attune  with  hers,  all 
sunlight  and  song,  that  I  can  count  the  rhythmic  pulses,  enter  into 
their  music,  and  find  the  meaning  of  their  artless  melody. 

And  yet,  someway — I  know  not  how — at  this  moment  a  subtle 
change  creeps  into  the  smiling  harmony.  Her  heart  no  longer  bounds. 
My  leaves  stir  slowly,  and  my  rich  petals  begin  to  furl  with  dull,  faint 
movements  all  unlike  their  first  glad  wakening;  a  slow  parching  fever 
burns  their  tips;  while  in  my  heart  is  a  clammy  chill,  not  the  fresh 
buoyancy  of  life,  but  a  burning  cold  that  seems  to  score  my  soul.  Oh, 
what  is  this?  Can  it  be  the  eyes  of  that  pitiful  child  which  are  thus 
blighting  our  joy?  There,  he  is  gone!  Oh,  why  did  he  look  on  us  so 
strangely?  What  was  the  secret  of  that  dumb,  straining  gaze?  It 
was  unlike  anything  I  have  ever  known,  and  how  cruelly  it  wrings  my 
heart!  Ah,  if  I  were  only  with  him  I  should  breathe  upon  him,  and 
smile   up   into  those  eyes,  smile   away  that  hn»±~ a    '- ^-    ^ulltJ   nS 

4! 


and  joy  into  his  heart.     Joy!    Why,  he  does  not  know  joy!     Then  it 
must  be  sorrow— that  look— and  this— why,  this  is  sympathy! 
The  Girl's  View — 

What  a  beautiful  day  this  is,  all  bright  and  glad— why,  even  the 
air  seems  full  of  laughter  as  the  wind  pulls  at  my  hair  and  then  runs 
away.  Oh,  what  a  lovely  rose!  You  beauty,  you  were  growing  for  me, 
just  waiting  for  me  to  pull  you,  I  know.  There!  I  shall  wear  you 
right  there  in  my  gown,  so  I  can  see  you  and  can  smell  your  sweet 
breath,  you  dear,  beautiful  rose!  Do  you  know,  you  seem  so  real,  so 
near  me,  someway,  that  I  feel  as  if  you  must  understand.  You  know 
how  I  love  you,  don't  you? 

Oh,  a  cripple!  How  sad!  How  dreadful!  If  I  could  only  do 
something,  but  how  can  I?  and  now  it's  too  late.  Oh,  my  rose,  my 
rose!  Why,  of  course;  he  could  have  had  it,  and  it  would  have  helped 
him.  Oh,  why  didn't  I  think?  There  was  an  opportunity,  and  I  didn't 
see  it,  and  now  it's  gone!  And  I  may  give  other  things  to  other  people 
as  long  as  I  live;  but  I'll  never  find  him  again,  never  be  able  to  show 
him  that  I  realize,  never  be  able  to  coax  a  smile  into  those  poor,  wist- 
ful eyes.     Ah  me,  this  is  regret! 

The  Cripple's  View — 

Sun's  a  shinin'  is  it?    What's  that  to  me? 

Can't  play  'ith  other  fellers;  's  far's  I  see, 

Can't  do  nothin'  'ceptin'  sit  in  this  here  chair 

An'  watch  th'  other  kids  havin'  fun  over  there. 

Look  at  that  feller!     My,  what  a  fly! 

Oh,  but  wouldn't  I  just  like  ter  try 

One  er  them  balls!     But  then,  't  ain't  no  go; 

Can't  never  do  it,  doc  says;   he'd  ought  ter  know. 

My,  what  a  pretty  lady!     Look  at  that  hair! 

Seems  like  the  sun  was  in  it;  an'  see,  there,  there 

On  her  gown!    'Twas  a  one  er  them — what  d'yer  call  'em — flowers! 

That's  what  't  was;  a  great  big  red  un.    Wouldn't  I  give  hours 

Er  this  here  watchin'  kids  ter  have  one  right  here  in  my  hand, 

An'  hold  it,  an'  smell  it!     There  ain't  nothin'  in  this  land 

As  smells  as  sweet  as  that  did,  what  she  wore  on  her  dress. 

Oh,  but  this  is  what  yer  calls  a  hankerin',  I  guess! — Abbie  Florence 

Williams. 


"CUTTING"     RHYMES. 

Do  you  know  the  road,  the  gladdest  e'er  seen, 
That  leads  to  the  summery,  sunshiny  green 
Where  the  breezes  blow, 
And  the  flowers  grow, 
And  studies  and  cares  lie  low? 


Take  a  few  "skips"  and  a  "pony"  or  two, 
Turn  to  the  left — or  the  right  will  do — 
And   follow  along  the  winding  way 
Till  you  come  to  the  post  marked  "Holiday." 
Now  the  gate  is  locked,  and  the  golden  key 
Is  safe  in  the  hands  of  the  Faculty. 
But  stolen  delights  are  sweetest,  I  ween, 
And  by  skipping  the  bars  that  lie  between 
You  come  to  the  summery,  sunshiny  green 
Where  the  breezes  blow, 
And  the  flowers  grow, 

And  studies  and  cares  lie  low. 

Here  the  robin  is  building  his  nest; 
Fere  the  blue-jay,  so  smartly  dressed, 
Is  gravely  consulting  his  trim  tailor-bird, 
— Whom  he  recently  summoned  from  China,  I  heard — 
Regarding  the  cut  of  his  handsome  coat-tails. 
And  here,  'mid  briars,  and  moss-covered  rails, 
The  hepatica  smiles  with  winsome  face, 
The  anemone  bows  with  airy  grace, 
And  sweet  young  violets  lift  their  eyes, 
To  greet  your  coming  with  wide  surprise; 
While  buttercups,  flattered  by  butterflies  gay, 
Amid  the  tall  grasses  bend  and  sway 
And  glow  with  a  welcome  brightly  serene, 
In  that  far-away,  summery,  sunshiny  green 
Where  the  breezes  blow, 
And  the  flowers  grow, 

And  studies  and  cares  lie  low. — Abbie  Florence  Wil- 
liams. 

VARIATIONS   ON  AN  OLD  THEME. 

Fancy  lay  dead  in  the  coffin, 

Fact  sat  aloft  on  the  throne. 
The  palace  of  art  was  deserted, 

Though  the  critics  now  called  it  their  own. 

'Round  the  walls  were  ranged  numberless  trophies 

Won  in  many  a  glorious  fight; 
And  their  fame  was  among  the  immortals; 

For    their    masters,    though    vanished    from    sight, 

Had   bequeathed  to  these  triumphs  of  genius 

Their  souls,  ardent,  lofty,  sincere: 
But  these  spoke  to  a  wide  desolation 

For  Fancy  lay  dead  on  the  bier, 

45 


While  Fact  sat  without  in  the  throne-room. 

Within,  through  those  gray  halls  of  gloom, 
Passed    a    silent  and  mournful    procession 

Of    wraiths    wrapped    in    mists    from    the    tomb. 

For  poets  and  artists  and  sculptors, 

Men  whose  lives  had  been  spent  to  redeem 

The  world  from  her  bondage  material 
Into  being  more  vast  than  her  dream; 

To  furnish  her  lofty  ideals; 

To  rouse  her  to  beauty  and  light;  — 
Alas!     Their  misunderstood  visions! 

For  Fact  reigned  supreme  in  dull  might, 

While  Fancy  lay  dead  in  her  splendor. 

Dead  their  dearest  interpreter,  friend, 
Who  had  served  to  reveal  their  soul's  visions, 

Rousing  other  lives  to  their  real  end. 

Fancy  lay  dead  in  her  coffin, 

Fact  sat  aloft  on  her  throne. 
Alas,  for  the  farewell  of  genius! 

Alas,  for  the  world  left  alone! 

— Abbie  Florence  Williams. 


GIVE  US  QUININE  OR  GIVE  US  DEATH. 

When  the  balmy  breezes 

Of  May  begin  to  blow, 
And  the  tuneful  sneezes 

Each  day  in  volume  grow, — 
'Tis  then  we  meet  together, 

On  the  side  of  the  bleachers  high, 
To  watch  the  strapping  athletes 

In  strength  and  in  fitness  vie. 

The  wind  is  keen  upon  you, 

It's  sweeping  down  your  back; 
You  think  it's  surely  "done"  you 

Till  it  takes  another  tack; 
And  now  it  nips  your  fingers, 

Now  it  runs  through  your  hair, 
And  wickedly  it  lingers 

To  chill  each  rootlet  there. 

From  'neath  his  furry  covers 
The  sun  slips  out  an  eye. 
46 


The  chattering  teeth  of  lovers 

Hail  his  glance  with  a  cry. 
But  oh,  their  fleeting  rapture! 

The  sun  looks  o'er  the  plain, 
Marks  the  wind  wait  his  capture, 

And  turns  to  sleep  again. 

Now  the  triumphant  cohorts 

Of  cold  with  rushing  come; 
Now  the  despairing  "coeds" 

With  grief  are  stricken  dumb. 
But  silent  tears  have  guerdon 

Of  words  for  who  can  hear, 
And  this  is  still  the  burden 

They  carried  tier  by  tier. 

"Oh,  what  care  we  for   hammers, 

For  dashes,  and  for  'scratch,' 
While  human  nature  clamors 

For  blankets  by  the  batch? 
Oh,  what  care  we  for  hurdles, 

For  broad  jumps,  and  for  gains, 
The  while  our  poor  blood  curdles 

Till  frappee  fills  our  veins? 

"What  pleasure  lies  in  peanuts 

When  'hot  drinks'  are  our  cry? 
What  virtue  rests  in  popcorn 

When  boas  are  not  by? 
Then  peddle  round  the  sweaters, 

And  pass  the  quinine  on; 
For  we  can't  go  home  till  morning, 

Till  the  great  'frat'  race  is  won!" 

— Abbie   Florence  Williams. 


A   BATTLE   IN  A   BASKET. 

The  pins  began  it.  They  were  dreadful  busybodies,  always  poking 
their  fingers  into  other  people's  business,  careless  whose  feelings  they 
hurt;  and  now  they  had  been  making  some  very  pointed  remarks  to 
the  cushion.  She  was  a  comfortable  body,  too  fat  to  get  angry;  so, 
though  smarting  under  their  attacks,  she  suffered  and  wept  in  silence. 
Not  so  with  the  thimble.  Her  bright  eyes  had  watched  the  encounter, 
and  when  she  saw  the  tears,  actual  sawdust  tears,  she  flew  at  the  pins 
and  rapped  their  heads  roundly.  This  stirred  the  needles,  who  were 
always  at  hand  when  the  thimble  was  concerned.  Though  obedient  to 
her,  they  were  mere  eye-servants,  and  thought  her  a  hard  mistress  to 

47 


drive  them  against  their  will;  so  they  were  glad  of  a  chance  to  break 
out  in  open  rebellion,  and,  as  usual,  stood  up  for  the  pins;  while  the 
.cotton,  who  was  always  tagging  round  after  the  needles,  "rubbering" 
to  see  what  other  folks  were  doing,  and  getting  tangled  in  no  end  of 
snarls, — the  cotton  sided  with  his  leaders,  and  reeled  off  a  long  string 
of  strong  epithets.  But  the  thimble  had  a  wise  little  head;  so,  instead 
of  answering,  she  appealed  to  the  scissors,  those  famous  old  peace- 
makers. Being  bright,  polished  fellows,  this  appeal  from  a  lady  put 
them  on  their  mettle;  so  they  turned  the  keen  edge  of  their  sarcasm 
against  the  opposing  party  of  the  pins.  Now  the  bodkin  entered  into 
the  dispute;  but  he  was  a  stiff,  awkward  old  creature,  who,  even  his 
friends  said,  "never  opened  his  mouth  but  he  put  his  foot  in  it;"  so 
that  every  one  voted  him  a  bore,  and  hustled  him  over  the  edge  of  the 
basket.  At  this  the  tape,  his  fast  friend  and  comrade,  was  much 
ruffled,  and  threw  out  a  life-line  to  the  fallen  bodkin,  all  the  time 
threatening  to  whip  the  whole  crowd,  till  cut  short  by  the  scissors. 
Then  the  pins  laid  their  heads  together,  and  the  needles  decided  to 
call  in  the  aid  of  the  emery  bag,  who,  in  spite  of  her  "stuck  up"  appear- 
ance, was  kind-hearted,  and  often  brightened  their  wits  for  tiiem. 
But  now  the  buttons,  small' bony  creatures,  some  cross-eyed  and  some 
weak  in  the  shanks,  entered  the  lists  by  dozens;  and  the  little  spools 
of  silk  twisted  themselves  into  knots  in  their  efforts  to  become  import- 
ant; so  that  things  were  rapidly  going  from  bad  to  worse,  when  a 
kitten  sprang  into  the  basket,  turning  the  disputants  out  of  house  and 
home,  and  quietly  settled  down  to  a  nap. — Abbie  Florence  Williams. 


HOW  THE  WEST  WIND  BEGAN  HIS  DAY. 

"Five  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  the  world  not  awake  yet!" 
The  west  wind  stirred  lazily  on  his  bed  of  leaves,  yawned  and 
stretched  uneasily  for  a  moment,  and  rose  with  a  sigh.  The  odor  of 
leaf-mold  clung  to  him  persistently,  and  the  dampness  filled  him  with 
all  sorts  of  rheumatic  and  catarrhal  suggestions,  while  the  necessity 
of  sleeping  in  the  cast-off  garments  of  the  departed  year  combined  with 
these  grievances  to  ruffle  his  usual  sunny  nature.  A  plunge  in  the 
lake,  however,  quickly  restored  his  customary  tone,  and  he  was  soon 
busily  engaged  in  the  duties  of  the  day. 

First  he  passed  over  the  water,  waking  the  sleepy  little  waves 
from  their  dreams,  and  teasing  and  coaxing  them  by  turns,  till  they 
sprang  from  their  beds  and  joined  him  in  a  merry  game  of  tag.  Then 
he  stole  into  the  tree-tops,  and  whispered  mysterious  tales  of  light 
and  warmth  and  accompanying  power  to  the  baby  buds,  till  strange 
longings  and  imaginings  filled  their  vain  little  heads,  and  they  fairly 
swelled  with  pride,  while  their  foolish  little  hearts  beat  so  hard  as 
threatened  to  burst  their  narrow  brown  and  green  jackets.  Next  he 
laid  his  ear  down  to  the   earth  and  listened.     Yes,  the   flowers  had 

48 


wakened  from  their  winter's  sleep  and  were  anxious  to  climb  up  Into 
the  outer  world  again;  but  they  did  not  know  whether  the  snow  had 
surely  gone  or  not.  He  heard  them  all  begging  that  somebody  sbould 
"go  up,  please,  and  find  out;  '  but  no  one  seemed  willing  to  risk  bis 
life  in  the  pursuit  of  knowledge.  Then  the  wind  breathed  a  warm 
message  down  to  them,  which  quieted  their  anxious  little  fears  and 
encouraged  their  timid  little  hopes;  so  that  he  laughed  softly,  as  he 
turned  away,  to  hear  them  eagerly  planning  which  might  take  the  lead. 
Then  he  sought  out  a  few,  wide-awake  birds,  and  advised  them  to 
look  up  the  matter  of  building-sites  at  once,  before  the  spring  "boom" 
should  sweep  the  forest,  and  the  first  of  May  should  appear  with  its 
exodus  of  southern  housekeepers.  He  offered  them,  too,  a  snug  little 
"corner"  on  the  nest  market,  but  gave  them  up  as  lacking  in  all  enter- 
prise because  they  refused  to  stop  wool-gathering  and  catching  at 
straws.  Now  the  sun  arose  and  extended  a  warm  hand  of  greeting  to 
the  wind,  who  sent  back  a  breezy  shout  in  reply;  for  the  two  were  old 
chums  and  had  worked  together  many  a  long  summer  through.  And 
so  the  west  wind  began  his  day. — Abbie  Florence  Williams. 


A   DAILY  OCCURRENCE. 

Running  up  the  hillside, 

Rushing  down  the  street, 
Whirling  round  the  corners, 

Shaming  coursers  fleet, 
Startling  with  your  gestures 

All  the  folks  there  are, — 
Bless  me!  this  is  pleasant, 

Making  for  the  car! 

Shedding  all  your  hairpins, 

Losing  wits  and  hat, 
Groping  for  the  wanderers, 

Wondering  where  they're  "at," 
Casting  curls  and  side-combs 

To  the  careless  gale, — 
Bless  me!    this  is  pleasant, 

Scrambling  by  the  rail! 

Sweeping  comes  the  north  wind, 

Oh,  so  strong  is  he, 
Lean  your  back  against  him, 

He'll  hold  you  easily. 
Pull  your  furs  close  round  you, 

Chilling  as  they  are, — 
Bless  me!    this  is  pleasant, 

Waiting  for  the  car! 
49 


Surging  come  the  snowflakes, 

Singing  their  mad  song, 
Perching  on  your  eyebrows, 

Saucy,  whirling  throng! 
Skipping  down  your  collar, 

Clouding  o'er  your  veil, 
Bless  me!   this  is  pleasant, 

Watching  on  the  rail! 

Thinking  o'er  the  questions 

Waiting  you  at  eight, 
When  the  Bastile  crumbled, 

— Oh,  what  was  the  date? — 
Crossing  the  Bernard  Pass; 

Easier,  by  far,' 
Than  this  everlasting 

Waiting  for  the  car! 

Running  to  the  platform, 

Rushing  up  the  steps, 
Whirling  in  the  doorway, 

Crowding  down  the  "preps," 
Startling  with  your  aspect 

All  the  folks  inside, — 
Bless  me!    What  a  pleasant 

Way  to  take  a  ride! — Abbie  Florence  Williams. 


THE    PANTRY    SPICE    BOX. 

The  kitchen  pantry  is  always  an  interesting  place  to  cooks  and 
children;  though  the  interest  is,  in  the  one  case,  scientific,  and,  in  the 
other,  purely  spontaneous,  arising  from  a  native  instinct.  Next  to  the 
shelves  laden  with  preserves  and  jams  and  the  tin  box  exhaling  such 
delectable  suggestions  of  plummy  sweetness,  the  spice  box  offers  a 
tempting  field  of  exploration  for  little  fingers  and  tongues. 

The  first  section  of  the  country  turns  out  to  be  very  hot,  and  over- 
grown with  roots,  so  that  the  small  travelers  pick  their  way  out  very 
gingerly.  The  next  is  no  better;  for  its  inhabitants  are  regular  pepper- 
pots,  and  make  things  so  warm  for  the  intruders  that  they  leave  more 
hastily  than  they  came;  but  their  flight  is  so  precipitate  that  they  kick 
up  a  great  dust,  and  fall  to  sneezing  convulsively.  Blinded  by  their 
tears,  they  fall  headlong  into  a  mustard  bath;  but  fortune  guides  them 
to  a  soda  bank  close  by,  where  they  cool  their  burns,  and  compose  their 
spirits.  By  this  time,  people  with  older  heads  would  have  been  warned 
to  go  no  further  in  the  search  for  the  good  things  of  this  life;  but  the 
little  light-fingered  company  are  only  the  more  eager  to  reach  delectable 
ground.    And  their  zeal  is  rewarded;  for  now,  passing  through  the  very 

50 


:'  the  earth,  they  enter  a  land  of  spices,  rich  in  cinnamon  and 
clove  and  other  goodly  stores  wh<  rein  they  revel;  and  the  trials  of  the 
v. .  >  thither  are  forgotten.  Yet  even  this  Canaan  is  beset  with  dangers, 
i:i.  heeded  by  the  small  spies,  till  the  erring  callers  are  firmly  seized  by 
the  servants  of  wrath  and  borne  away  to  justice,  when  the  guilty  ones 
ruefully  consider  how  hard  is  the  way  of  the  transgressor. — Abbie 
Florence  Williams. 

A   TRIP  TO   FAR-AWAY   LAND. 

"Tell  me  a  story  of  Far-away  land," 

Lisps  a  tired  voice  there  at  my  knee; 
And  a-  soft  little  face  gently  brushes  my  hand, 

So  I  cannot  but  list  to  the  plea. 
Then  I  cuddle  him  tight, 
This  little  boy  bright, 

And  far  away  over  the  sea, 
To  the  land  of  the  sprites 
And  wee  elfin  knights, 

In  a  rock-a-bye  boat  go  we. 

And  his  eyes  open  wide  as  I  tell  of  that  place, 

Where  the  children  do  nothing  but  play; 
With  fairies  for  playmates,  they  frolic  and  chase, 

And  dance  in  the  meadows  all  day. 
Where  tiny  flowers  grow, 
And  soft  breezes  blow, 

In  this  land  of  the  fairy  and  fay. 
And  he  laughs  in  delight, 
This  little  boy  bright, 

As  he  thinks  of  the  Far-far-away. 

And  I  tell  him  of  music,  so  tenderly  sweet, 

That  rustles  about  in  the  trees; 
While  the  deer  lightly  flashes  beneath  tiny  feet, 

As  they  dance  to  the  tune  of  the  breeze. 
The  happy  birds  sing, 
As  on  hedges  they  swing, 

Keeping  chord  with  the  droning  of  bees. 
And  the  little  boy  blinks, 
As  his  curly  head  sinks; 

He   is   heavier  now  on   my  knees. 

Then  I  tell  him  of  moonbeams  so  silvery  and  smooth, 

Where  fairies  climb  up  and  slide  down, 
And  of  soft  plashing  fountains,  whose  music  can  soothe 

The  weary;  and  then  of  a  town, 
Whose  streets,  paved    with  flowers, 

51 


Are  lined  with  gay  bowers, 

And  fragrance  floats  ever  around. 
And  wee  curly  head  nods; 
He's  off  with  the  gods, 

On  a  visit  to  Far-away  town. — Geo.  Craig  Stewart. 


IN  THE  TEMPLE  OF  THE  WOOD. 

Young  Jack-in-the-Pulpit  stood  in  his  desk. 

The  robin  and  the  oriole 
Had  joined  with  the  wren  in  leading  the  hymn, 

And  a  peaceful  quiet  stole 
Through  all  the  wood;  and  everywhere 

The  flowers  began  to  nod. 
All  nature  bowed  in  silent  praise 

To  worship  Nature's  God. 

And  Jack  was  filled  with  joy  and  praise, 

As  he  stood  erect  to  pray, 
Unheeding  the  many  rival  Jacks 

Who  preached  in  the  wood  that  day. 
He  knew  no  clash  of  narrow  creeds 

Could  ever  come  between 
These  tiny  pastors  of  the  wood, 

In  their  desks  of  red  and  green. 

So  splendid  he  looked  in  his  surplice  fine, 

That  glorious  Sabbath  day, 
The  buttercups  gave  him  their  brightest  looks, 

As  he  stood  erect  to  pray. 
And  the  tiny  violets,  "modest  and  sweet," 

As  all  the  poets  say, 
Lifted  their  dreamy  eyes  of  blue 

In  their  coy  and  pensive  way. 

The  wild  geraniums  turned  about 

To  look  from  every  place; 
The  touch-me-nots  grew  less  severe 

From  gazing  on  his  face. 
And  dainty  groups  of  trilium, 

With  nodding  heads  and  gay, 
From  fairest  white  were  blushing  red, 

As  their  minister  rose  to  pray. 

But  Jack  was  blind  to  all  the  world, 

For  in  a  space  apart, 
He  saw  the  fair  Anemone, 

The  idol  of  his  heart. 


And  all  his  soul  was  filled  anew, 

As  he  uttered  words  of  praise 
For  the  sacredness  of  life  and  love 

Through  all  the  golden  days. 

\\  hat  think  you  now,  my  gentle  friends, — 

That  he  was  led  astray, 
Because  he  worshiped  God  through  love 

For  her  that  Sabbath  day? 
Nay.  rather  could  I  fancy  then 

The  breezes  whispered  soft, 
"He  needeth  not  our  gentle  aid 

To  bear  his  prayer  aloft, 
For  never  in  this  quiet  wood," 

I  seem  to  hear  them  say, 
"Have  earth  and  heaven  been  nearer  one 

When  Jack  has  stood  to  pray." — Inez  Payton. 


A    PURITAN   SERMON. 

: 
When  Jack  arose  to  preach — oh,  my! 
The  meadow  rue  gave  one  long  sigh, 
The  violet  closed  her  weary  eye, 
When  Jack  arose  to  preach. 


When  Jack  arose  to  preach — oh,  oh! 
The  bishop's  cap  annoyed  him  so 
He  really  feared  he'd  have  to  go, 
When  Jack  arose  to  preach. 

When  Jack  arose  to  preach,  'tis  said 
The  dandelion  drooped  her  golden  head 
And  nestled  in  her  leafy  bed, 
When  Jack  arose  to  preach. 

When  Jack  arose  to  preach — oh,  dear! 
The  buttercup  squeezed  out  a  tear, 
And  said  he  wasn't  wanted  here, 
When  Jack  arose  to  preach. 

When  Jack  arose  to  preach — dear  me! 
The  star  flower  didn't  care  to  see — 
To  hear  him  is  too  much."  said  she. 
When  Jack  arose  to  preach. 

When  Jack  arose  to  preach — oh,  grief! 
The  grasses  laid  their  blades  in  sheath, 
And  turned  to  slumber  for  relief, 
When  Jack  arose  to  preach. 

53 


When  Jack  shut  up  his  book — why  then 

The  flowers  all  woke  up  again, 

And  shouted  loud  and  clear,  "Amen!" 

When  Jack  arose  to  preach.     — Abbie  Florence  Williams. 


THE  SOUNDING  OF  THE  BELL. 

Baby  fingers,  pink  and  rosy, 

Catching  playful  light  and  shade; 
Eyes  that  dance  with  purest  pleasure 

At  the  beauty  God  has  made — 
All  are  still  and  pause  with  wonder, 

Held  as  if  by  magic  spell, 
At  the  sudden,  playful  jingle 

Of  a  tiny  silver  bell. 

Noisy  school-boys  on  the  hill-side. 

Shouting  at  their  game  of  ball, 
Thinking  naught  of  books  or  lessons 

Or  of  ills  that  may  befall, 
All  too  soon  are  interrupted 

By  the  sound  they  know  tco  well, 
Creep  to  school  with  slow  reluctance 

At  the  clanging  of  the  bell. 

Maiden  decked  in  orange  blossoms, 

All  aglow  with  love  her  face, 
Kneeling  for  a  father's  blessing 

And  a  mother's  fond  embrace, 
Waits  with  trembling  exultation 

Till  her  joyous  bossom  swells 
At  the  sweet,  melodious  music 

Of  the  solemn  marriage  bells. 

Pensive  nun  devout  and  lowly, 

Wrapped  in  garments  of  the  night, 
Seeks  alone  the  holy  chapel 

In  the  last  faint  gleam  of  light. 
Filled,  her  soul,  with  adoration 

At  the  feet  of  him  who  dwells 
In  the  hearts  of  all  who  worship 

At  the  chime  of  vesper  bells. 

Deep  immersed  in  speculation 
Vexed  with  anxious  business  cares, 

Buy  and  sell  with  wild  excitement 
Eager;  grasping  bulls  and  bears, 

Till  their  bids  have  reached  the  limit 
54 


Every  moment  now  will  tell, 
Ah!  for  one  more  day  a  winner. 
Thunders  forth  the  ponderous  hell. 

Hopeless  convict  bent  and  hardened 

Living  empty  nights  and  days, 
Toiling,  grinding,  never  knowing 

Words  of  comfort  or  of  praise 
Wakes  from  dull,  exhausting  slumber 

In  his  cheerless,  hollow  cell 
Driven  to  his  hateful  labor 

By  the  clanging  of  the  bell. 

Quiet,  solemn,  sad  and  lonely 

At  the  slow  and  rhythmic  knell 
Of  the  last  of  earthly  tributes 

Sounding  from  the  steeple-bell, 

Seeks  his  rest  in  peaceful  church-yard 

Hidden  in  a  lonely  dell 

i 

He  that  sleeps  no  more  to  waken 
At  the  sounding  of  the  bell.  — Inez  Payton. 


SOUND   AND    SENSE. 

(An  attempt  to  adapt  the  one  to  the  other,  or  the  use  of  onomatopoetic 

words.) 
From  a  babbling,  rippling  gurgle 
Of  the  brooklet,  cool  and  soothing 
Swift  and  swifter  flows  the  river 
Swishing  through  a  mesh  of  grasses, 
Brawling  over  brush  and  brambles 
Till  a  hissing,  seething  torrent, 
Roaring,  rushes  down  the  mountain. 
From  the  vague,  uncertain  somewhere 
Swoops  a  duck  with  splash  descending 
O'er  the  water,  waking  echoes 
Through  the  awful  mountain  stillness. 

Far  below,  where  in  the  valley 
Flutters,  twitters,  chirps  the  robin, 
Trills  the  wren  and  coos  the  pigeon; 
Where  beneath  the  brushy  thicket 
Bumble-bees  are  buzzing,  droning, 
Where  the  slimy  serpents  wriggle, 
Here  a  tiny,  frugal  clearing 
Marks  a  peasant's  habitation 
Mid  the  quacking,  clucking  jargon 


Of  the  farm-yard;  mid  the  bleating 

And  the  tinkle  of  the  sheep-bells; 

Mid  the  crunching  of  the  oxen 

At  their  evening  dole  of  fodder, 

Clatters  home  the  rickety  wagon. 

From  his  seat  the  awkward  lubber 

Strikes  the  earth  with  thud,  and,  sprawling, 

Scrambles  to  his  feet  to  listen 

To  the  jingling  call  to  supper. 

In  the  low-roofed  cot  the  mother, 
Ripping  old  and  time-worn  stitches, 
Clips  and  snips  with  busy  scissors, 
While  with  blunt  and  stubby  pencil 
Marking  every  seam  and  gather; 
Heedless  of  the  wrangling  jangle 
Of  the  voices  in  the  kitchen. 

Now  at  last  the  meal  is  ready; 
Sizzling  hot  the  steaming  fritters. 
Round  the  board  with  shuffling  footsteps, 
Scraping  chairs  in  rasping  discord, 
Gather  eager,  hungry  peasants. 
All  is  silent,  save  the  gnawing 
Of  the  crisp,  dry  crusts,  and  guzzling 
Of  great  gulps  of  blackened  coffee. 

Supper  over,  stilled  the  clatter 

Of  the  clumsy  crocks  and  platters, 

Only  heavy  drawling  voices 

Break  the  close,  oppressive  silence, 

As  the  smoke  from  lazy  pipe-stems, 

Puffing,  curls  away  in  shadows. 

All  at  once  a  low,  deep  rumble, 

Gust  of  wind,  and  rattling  shutter 

Tell  of  swift  approaching  danger. 

The  sheep-dog,  whining,  scratching  wildly 

For  admittance,  cowers,  shivers 

In  a  dark  secluded  corner. 

Chubby  fingers  clutch  in  terror 

At  the  nervous  skirts  of  mother, 

As  a  blinding  flash  of  lightning 

Comes  with  splitting  crash  of  thunder 

Down  the  jagged  mountain  passes. 

Bangs  the  door  of  every  shanty; 

Howls  the  wind  through  cracking  tree-tops: 

Loud  the  dinner-bell  is  clanging; 

56 


Rocks  and  sticks  from  all  directions 
Whizz  and  whirl  in  wild  confusion. 

Then  a  lull,  when  from  the  forest 
Comes  a  piercing  shriek  of  horror. 
Quick  as  thought  the  men  go  stumbling 
Spite  of  storm  into  the  darkness. 
Whoops  and  shouts  remain  unanswered; 
Moans  and  groans  direct  their  footsteps, 
Till,  at  length,  a  loathsome  object, 
Drenched,  is  borne  into  the  cabin; 
Some  besotted,  blear-eyed  traveler, 
Strangled  by  a  falling  timber. 

Weirdly  now  the  wind  is  sighing, 

While  a  slow  and  dismal  drizzle, 

Mournful,  soaks  the  sodden  landscape. 

At  the  heavy  cheerless  dawning, 

Till  a  sudden  burst  of  sunlight 

Scatters  every  trace  of  darkness, 

While  the  patter  from  the  tree-tops 

Mingles  with  the  woodman's  whistle, 

Chopping  early  in  the  forest.  —Inez  Payton. 


THAT    LITTLE    PET    OF    MINE. 

My  pen  is  weary  and  wayward  to-night, 

And  my  thoughts  are  borne  away, 
Till  gentle  dreams  have  quite  replaced 

The  things  I  meant  to  say. 
A  vision  of  a  happy  child 

Has  altered  every  line, — 
The  sweet  pale  face  and  the  sunny  smile 

Of  that  little  pet  of  mine. 

Is  it  the  Christmas-tide  that  brings 

The  thoughts  of  this  darling  boy, 
Till  I  all  but  hear  his  merry  laugh, 

So  full  of  life  and  joy? 
I  seem  to  feel  his  tiny  arms 

About  my  neck  entwine; 
And  think  of  days  whose  brightest  joy 

Came  through  that  pet  of  mine. 

I  did  turl  my  hair  'fore  my  Auntie  tome!" 

He  would  shout  in  baby  glee, 
Then  beg  for  a  '"tory"  and  "Please  would  I  sing?' 

As  he  cuddled  on  my  knee. 


At  last  I  left  him,— eight  long  months 

Had  lengthened  into  nine, 
Before  I  came  again  to  see 

That  roguish  boy  of  mine. 

Alas!    he  had  lost  his  baby  clothes, 

As  boys  are  wont  to  do. 
The  curls  were  gone,  and  naught  was  left, 

Save  the  eyes  of  heavenly  blue. 
He  might  have  lost  his  babyhood — 

That  touch  of  the  divine — 
But  then  an  awful  hand  was  raised 

To  blight  this  boy  of  mine! 

With  aching  hearts  and  anxious  eyes 

We  watched  his  active  feet 
Grow  limp  and  lifeless,  at  the  time 

When  life  had  grown  so  sweet. 
For  weeks,  he  crept  on  hands  and  knees, 

Yet  through  those  eyes  would  shine 
A  look  of  patient  happiness, 

So  like  that  pet  of  mine. 

His  baby  eyes  could  never  see 

The  weary  waiting  years, 
That  he  might  live  in  helplessness, 

He  little  knew  the  tears 
And  agony  and  long  suspense; 

For  he  could  not  divine 
With  childish  thought  the  load  that  weighed 

His  mother's  heart  and  mine. 

But  Christmas  carols  sound  again 

Of  Holy  Child  and  Eastern  Star; 
And  with  their  blessedness  there  comes 

A  message  from  afar! 
No  longer  must  our  stubborn  hearts 

Be  struggling  to  resign 
Our  wills  to  His,  for  God  is  good, 

And  now  that  boy  of  mine, 

Just  as  the  Christ-child  comes  to  free 

The  world  thro'  love  and  peace, 
Has  seemed  to  gain  new  life  again, 

A  long-delayed  release. 
Thus,  Father,  give  Thy  halting  child, 

The  healing  touch  of  Thine 
That  gives  new  life  to  faltering  feet 

And  may  that  life  be  mine.  — Inez  Payton. 

58 


A    MID-SUMMER    AWAKENING. 

It  was  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  The  snn  beat  hotter  and 
hotter  upon  the  dusty  grass,  and  all  out-of-doors  seemed  half  asleep. 
Outside  the  sitting  room  window  the  solemn  assembly  of  hens  had 
lapsed  into  thoughtful  meditation.  The  thrifty  Brahmas  and  Leg- 
horns had  ceased  to  sharpen  their  claws,  the  stiff  Buff  Cochins  were 
stupidly  blinking  at  i  pace,  while,  under  the  lilac  bush,  the  wise 
old  Plymouth  Rock  stared  at  her  stubby  beak  with  a  far-away  look 
in  her  eye.  An  occasional  cracking  twig  announced  the  slightest 
mot:on.  Liitle  Bantam  bestired  herself,  beat  her  lazy  wings  in  the 
warm  dust,  settled  her  head  on  her  snowy  bosom,  and  once  more 
all  was  still.  Slowly  the  lifeless  minutes  passed;  an  oppressive  silence 
resigned, — when  all  of  a  sudden  the  central  figure  began  to  move. 
Slowly  at  first  it  shifted  its  little  white  wings;  the  snowy  feathered 
back  began  to  rise  and  spread  like  gentle  waves  of  the  sea.  Then, 
with  an  awkward  jerk,  the  little  body  was  raised  from  the  grass  upon 
two  very  long  and  yellow  legs.  Slowly  the  head  was  raised,  the  eyes 
distended,  the  beak  began  to  part,  and  then  there  was  heard  "pro- 
longed and  loud"  a  genuine  rooster's  crow.  With  one  accord  the 
astonished  hens  arose,  arranged  themselves  in  twos  and  fours  about 
their  newly  found  hero,  and  fixed  on  him  their  wondering  gaze. 
With  the  dignity  of  a  monarch  the  awakened  lord  turned  himself  about 
and  strutted  from  the  scene,  while  one  by  one  the  speechless  group 
of  hens  respectfully  fell  into  line  and  followed  him  out  of  sight. — Inez 
Pay  ton. 

A  MORNING  VISION. 

Sunday  morning.  WTe  have  slept  late  and  dressed  in  haste,  and 
only  the  room  remains  to  tell  of  our  sudden  departure.  Here  last 
night's  tardy  return  and  the  morning's  belated  rush  have  left  their 
marks  in  every  direction.  The  table  is  covered  with  velvet  hats,  lace 
handkerchiefs,  programs,  and  white  kid  gloves.  Rugs  with  turned-up 
corners  and  ends  rolled  out  are  strewn  with  discarded  week-day  shoes, 
whose  lolling  tongues  and  half-worn  laces  are  stretched  about  in  dusty 
abandon.  Precious  ribbons,  fallen  from  temporary  resting-places,  lie 
in  fantastic  shapes  in  the  sunlight  square  before  the  bed.  Two  very 
much  wilted  pillows  still  bear  the  impress  of  sleepy  heads;  the 
punched-in  ends  that  mark  that  final  stolen  nap  have  scarcely  been 
lessened  by  the  dive  at  the  middle  for  the  tell-tale  watch  beneath. 
The  rumpled  sheets  resemble  the  rough  and  restless  sea,  along  whose 
edge  broad  strips  of  white  and  blue  are  having  a  peep  at  the  day. 
From  alternate  bureau  drawers,  yawning  languidly,  bits  of  ribbon 
and  lace  peep  out  to  greet  the  endless  confusion  that  covers  the 
open  desk.  Under  the  dotted  curtains  one  shade,  entirely  drawn,  is 
flapping  noisily,  while  the  other,  hastily  raised,  has  assumed  a  rakish 

511 


slant.  The  boasted  glory  of  the  gaping  window-seat  is  lost  in  pillows 
and  bolsters  scattered  over  the  chairs,  and  nothng  indeed  preva  Is 
but  utter  defiance  of  law  and  order. — Inez  Payton. 

AN  APRIL   STORM. 

Drip,  drip,  drip.     For  a  moment  the  rain  has  ceased,  as  the  heav- 
ing  masses    of    leaden    clouds    roll    and    blacken    in    harmless    wrath. 
The   receding  corners   of   the   great   haymow   have   become  quite   lost 
in  the  deepening  gloom,  while  ponderous  shadows  are  ranging  them- 
selves among  the  billows  of  hay.     Outside,  in  the  far-off  somewhere,  a 
half-heard  rumble  becomes  a  threatening  roar,  which  suddenly  breaks 
into    rattling   sounds    of    nothingness,    and    overspreads    the    heavens. 
Upon  its  death,  comes  a  second  rumble,  and  then  another,  and  another, 
ever  growing  in  volume  and  speed,  to  gather  at  last  in  mimic  rage  and 
to  break  with  a  thunderous  crash.     The  very  timbers  of  the  old  barn 
shake,  and  through  the  wide-opened  window  a  half-wild  gust  rushes 
in   for  a  frolic  in  the  crisp,   dry   hay.     Somewhere  a   reckless   hinge 
or  pulley  grates  a  shrieking  defiance,  while  down  below,  a  manger  door 
"swings  to"  with  a  heedless  bang.     A  blinding  glare  of  light,  a  second 
piercing    peal,   and   then,    as    if   all   the   heavens   had   suddenly   burst 
into  floods,  the  earth  and  air  are  filled  with  a  very  deluge  of  rain. 
In   a    moment   every    post   and    gate   and  shed    without   has   vanished 
behind  the  storm,  while,  on  the  great  barn  roof,  there  beats  a  deafening- 
roar.     But  hark!     Already  the  storm  is  spent;   gates  and  fences  reap- 
pear;  the  clouds  are  broken  and  flee,  while  overhead,  on  the  flooded 
roof,  the  gentle  drops  are  playing  a  merry  tattoo.     Within,  the  bulky 
shadows  have  slunk  to  remotest  nooks,  while  through  the  still  opened 
window,  a  dancing  sunbeam  bursts  to  play  where  the  wind  has  been; 
and,  far  beyond  its  beat,  away  in  the  eastern  sky,  a  band  of  purple 
and  crimson  and  yellow  is  stretched  across  the  blue. — Inez  Payton. 


A  GLIMPSE  OF  ITALY. 

There  were  only  four  of  them,  but  when  they  entered  the  almost 
empty  car  I  thought  there  must  be  an  excited  crowd  of  a  dozen 
or  more.  Headed  by  a  black-eyed  maiden  of  ten  or  eleven  years,  the 
dusky  little  troop  filed  in,  as  if  on  exhibition.  Behind  the  girl,  two 
small  brothers  crowded  her  forward,  while  looming  in  the  rear  was 
the  dusky  face  of  the  fondly  officious  mother.  Her  face  was  even 
more  than  dusky,  but  round  as  round  could  be  and  lighted  by  a 
beaming  smile  and  two  great  merry  eyes.  She  was  what  one  would 
call  a  comfortable  sort  of  woman,  youthful  enough,  though  her  hair 
was  touched  with  gray,  and  plainly  but  decently  dressed.  She  had 
eyes  and  ears  for  no  one,  save  her  tittering,  squirming  little  flock, 
which  was  soon  wriggling  on  the  seat  beside  her.   The  flock  in  question 

60 


seemed  to  "pair  away  from  her,"  If  such  an  expression  may  be  used, 
for  the  oldest  had  a  complexion  of  orthodox  Italian  olive,  while  the 
urchin  next  in  size  was  more  of  a  northern  type,  ami  the  baby 
was  white  as  our  fathers'  children  ever  thought  of  being.  But  the 
roguish  brown-black  eyes  that  (lanced  and  snapped  from  every  face 
gave  certain  proof  that  these  down-town  children  were  none  of  us. 
Naturally  enough,  the  baby  boy  was  their  chief  source  of  pride  and 
merriment.  A  tiny  piece  he  was,  clad  in  a  suit  of  black,  whoso 
miniature  trousers  gave  him  the  appearance  of  a  somewhat  en- 
larged but  extremely  active  clothes-pin.  He  it  was  who  served  as 
orator  for  the  crowd,  for.  now  and  then,  he  would  shout  aloud  some 
startling  text  or  truth,  always  the  same  in  sound  and  length,  while 
the  simultaneous  burst  of  applause  from  the  other  two  was  equalled 
only  by  his  own  baby  glee.  Of  all  this  the  fond  mother  seemed  highly 
to  approve.  During  the  intervals  of  the  child's  discourse,  the  gibber- 
ing observations  of  the  other  three  were  not  unlike  the  chattering 
language  of  squirrels,  quite  intelligible  among  themselves,  but  not 
yet  understood  by  less  favored  man.  To  add  interest  to  this  amateur 
performance,  baby  boy  and  elder  brother  often  engaged  in  sly  nudges 
and  kicks,  as  often  receiving  good-natured  maternal  reproofs,  while  the 
little  miss  had  only  the  part  of  Betsy  Short  to  play.  But  at  this 
point  the  station  was  reached,  and  the  interesting  four  were  left 
alone  in  the  almost  deserted  car,  to  await  another  audience. — Inez 
Payton. 

"THE    HOUR   OF    DEWS." 

The  beginnings  of  night  have  come.  Over  the  softened  tree-tops  is 
shed  the  tender  light  of  slowly  fading  day,  while  on  the  silent 
waters  the  harbingers  of  night,  in  still  more  deepened  shadows,  have 
cast  their  subtle  spell.  The  stillness  is  broken  only  by  the  gently 
recurring  dip  of  a  pair  of  drowsy  oars,  or  by  the  almost  plaintive 
response  of  the  half-resistant  water.  Over  the  face  of  the  stream 
the  tall  and  graceful  willows  have  met  in  fond  embrace  the  shades 
of  their  own  green  boughs,  which  rise  from  out  of  the  depths  to  receive 
a  silent  caress,  while  stately  oaks  and  maples,  rearing  their  straight- 
ened forms  against  the  receding  sky,  extend  their  lengths  again  in  the 
depths  of  the  silent  river. 

Away  to  the  southward  stretches  the  sheen  of  mirrored  water, 
till  its  narrowed  expanse  is  lost  in  the  union  of  bordering  trees. 
Silently  over  all  is  settled  the  stealthy  night,  which,  creeping  down 
the  banks  beneath  the  sheltering  boughs,  steals  across  the  waters  to 
meet  the  tiny  boat.  Bigger  and  blacker  and  nearer  grow  the  huddling 
trees  till  the  river  is  nothing  but  shadows,  and  the  sky  is  lost  to 
view,  when  suddenly  over  the  trees  a  delicate  silver  light  tinges  the 
highest  branches,  while  bits  of  gleaming  clouds  disclose  the  far-off 
blue.     At  first   the   leafy   walls    refuse   to   share  their  light   with   the 

(il 


still  more  darkened  waters,  till  through  a  kindly  break  the  emboldened 
moon-beams  dart  and  spread  a  silver  sheen  across  the  silent  river, 
while,  dancing  about  the  oars,  the  tiny  laughing  waters  are  tipped 
with  yellow  light,  and,  mounting  the  eastern  sky,  the  great  majestic 
moon  regards  the  sleeping  landscape. — Inez  Payton. 


THE   POWER  OP   LITERATURE. 

It  was  one  of  those  dismal  mornings  when  Nature  is  at  her 
worst.  All  night  she  had  been  fretting  in  a  half-hearted,  peevish 
fashion  until,  when  day  had  come,  in  a  futile  attempt  to  smile,  she 
had  given  way  at  last  to  a  very  torrent  of  storm.  The  cold,  wet 
rain  that  was  lashing  the  side  of  the  gloomy  car  obstructed  the 
meager  view  that  might  have  been  gained  of  the  station,  while  on  the 
opposite  side,  where  the  windows  escaped  the  deluge,  a  few  coal 
shanties  and  cribs  dotted  "the  landscape  o'er."  It  was  already  nine 
o'clock;  the  berths  had  been  made  up  and  the  passengers  were  ready 
for  the  day,  but  not  for  the  kind  of  one  that  seemed  to  be  before  them. 
For  ten  long  weary  hours  the  train  had  not  moved  a  foot,  since  the 
wreckage  of  a  freight,  not  many  miles  ahead,  had  served  to  block 
the  track.  So  long  as  people  had  slept,  their  patience  had  endured,  but 
it  scarcely  stood  the  test  when  the  effort  became  more  conscious.  Just 
how  many  times  the  would-be  traveling  salesman  had  trudged  up  and 
down  the  aisle,  chewing  a  lifeless  cigar,  nobody  could  have  told,  not 
even  the  bilious  man,  who  hated  monopolies  and  wondered  how  two 
would  look  "doing"  the  aisle  in  procession.  The  well-dressed  woman 
in  brown  was  heaving  a  languid  sigh,  and  the  care-worn  figure  in 
black  was  fidgeting  nervously,  when  the  stout  man  in  the  rear  set  his 
foot  down  with  a  bang,  and,  ramming  the  last  night's  paper  to  the 
depths  of  his  overcoat  pocket,  suddenly  sprang  to  his  feet.  Slowly 
transferring  his  glasses  from  his  ample  nose  to  his  thumb  and  lower- 
ing his  head  a  trifle,  he  stared  at  the  group  before  him.  The  walking 
salesman  stopped,  the  bilious  man  turned  to  see,  and  the  women  in 
black  and  in  brown  exchanged  expectant  glances.  Then,  slowly  clear- 
ing his  throat,  in  a  deep  magnetic  voice,  the  stranger  began  to  repeat 
that  immortal  passage  of  Irving  describing  the  most  sodden  day  that 
every  occurred  in  literature.  The  effect  was  electrical.  When  the 
recitation  was  ended,  the  eyes  of  the  woman  in  brown  were  dancing 
merrily;  the  salesman  had  forgotten  himself  and  was  perched  on 
the  arm  of  her  seat,  indulging  in  vigorous  applause,  while  the  little 
woman  in  black  and  even  the  bilious  man  wore  faces  wreathed  in 
smiles. — Inez  Payton. 

THE  MILITARY  FUNERAL. 

Over  thirty  years  before  he  had  borne  the  rank  of  major  among  the 
wearers  of  the  blue.     Since  then,  little  known  in  his  native  town,  he 

62 


had  lived  in  an  Eastern  city.  Eccentric  and  peculiar,  his  had  been 
a  mysterious  life,  till  there  shrouded  his  whole  career  a  something 
strangely  uncertain,  which  no  one  tried  to  explain.  At  last  he  sick- 
ened and  died  and  was  brought  by  his  aged  mother  to  be  buried  near 
his  early  home.  Thus  there  was  in  that  town  a  stranger  and  a 
grander  funeral  than  it  ever  before  had  seen.  Just  at  the  close  of 
day  strains  of  martial  music,  measured,  slow,  and  sad,  sounded  the 
mournful  message  that  the  dead  was  on  his  way.  Already  the  great 
red  sun  was  lost  in  the  crimson  west  and  among  the  stately  sentinels 
of  marble  and  towering  pines  were  stealing  the  quiet  shadows,  when 
through  the  broad  arched  gateway  the  solemn  pageant  appeared.  The 
strains  of  music  ceased  while  only  muffled  drum-beats  broke  the 
sound  of  tramping  and  of  grating  carriage  wheels  along  the  gravel 
driveway.  Led  by  a  grave  drum-major  in  plume  and  heavy  sword, 
a  band  of  men  in  blue,  with  cornet,  fife,  and  drum,  were  leading  the 
way  through  the  pines.  Behind  them,  as  faithful  guards,  marched 
aged  volunteers  who  had  fought  for  the  stars  and  stripes,  possibly 
comrades  of  the  dead.  Then  came  the  funeral  car,  draped  in  silken 
flags,  caught  up  with  wreaths  of  smilax  and  beautiful  floral  decora- 
tions. A  team  of  four  white  horses,  in  harness  as  white  as  them- 
selves, were  drawing  it  slowly  along.  But  most  impressive  of  all  was 
the  princely  black  steed  that  followed.  Nervously  champing  his  bit, 
and  tossing  his  handsome  head,  at  every  step  his  well-shod  feet  struck 
the  gravel  beneath  with  a  quick,  impatient  ring.  Even  the  quivering 
nostrils  and  the  motion  of  his  thick,  black  mane  betrayed  his  restless 
spirit.  Bound  to  his  empty  saddle,  whose  newness  appeared  in  creaks 
at  his  every  movement,  flashed  a  long  sheathed  sword,  whose  hilt 
shone  above  the  pommel,  while  over  the  well-curved  neck  was  thrown 
the  empty  rein  that  marked  a  departed  rider.  Behind  him  a  half- 
closed  carriage  bore  the  beautiful  daughter  and  sister  and  widowed 
mother  of  the  dead,  and  at  last  came  the  train  of  friends  that  follows 
every  bier.  And  low  from  a  darkening  hollow  about  a  new-made  grave, 
came  the  plaintive  minor  strains  of  the  final  requiem,  while  away 
in  the  western  sky  the  crimson  strips  of  cloud  were  fading  into  the 
night. — Inez  Payton. 

TO    GRANDMOTHER'S    COOKY-JAR. 

It  was  the  crowning  glory 

Of  the  topmost  pantry  shelf. 
In  contempt  it  looked  about  it; 

It  loved  naught  but  itself. 

Its  fat,  brown  sides  were  bulging 

With  wealth  of  sweetness  rare, 
And  yet  it  would  not  let  us 

In  that  sweetness  share. 

63 


Like  an  ogre  grim  and  frowning 

It  watched  our  efforts  brave 
To  release  the  sugared  dainties 

That  our  nature  seemed  to  crave. 

But  it  held  its  treasure  safely, 

Where  we  could  not  intrude, 
And  looked  its  scorn  upon  us 

From  its  high  altitude. 

But  alas!  for  the  foolish  ogre 

And  its  fears,  so  soon  allayed, 
It  knew  not  the  wiles  of  mortals — 

Or  those  of  a  little  maid. 

For  we  went  to  the  white-haired  woman, 

With  her  endless  sock  of  blue; 
And  she  cuddled  us  closely  to  her, 

In  the  way  that  grandmothers  do. 

And  we  patted  her  arm  very  softly, 
As  we  said,  in  a  careless  way, 
'  Did  you  know  that  Patty  Becket 
Was  coming  here  to  play? 

'  We  want  to  have  a  party 

On  the  shady  garden-seat, 
For  Patty's  just  got  some  dishes, 

But  we  don't  know  what  to  eat." 

O  you  grim  and  scornful  ogre. 

Your  triumph  was  very  short; 
'Twas  now  our  turn  to  chuckle 

To  see  how  low  you  were  brought. 

And  we  laughed  again  at  your  downfall, 

As  we  sat  on  the  garden-seat, 
And  munched  on  your  hidden  treasure, 

For  our  revenge  was  sweet.  — Ethel  M.  Bates. 


THE    FISH    THAT    GOT   AWAY. 

'Twas  but  a  fleeting  look,  a  glimpse, 

As,  for  a  moment,  high  in  air, 
Impaled  upon  the  cruel  hook, 

The  fish,  in  anguish,  struggled  there. 

'Twas  but  a  glimpse,  and  then  a  downward  flash 
As  when  comets  at  midnight  play; 
64 


And  we  were  left  alone  to  dream 
Of  the  fish  that  got  away. 

'Tis  strange  how.  at  a  single  glance. 

You  can  find  so  great  display 
Of  virtues  and  of  excellence 

In  a  fish  that  gets  away. 

It  shone  with  irridescent  light; 

How  much  it  weighed,  we  dare  not  say. 
'Twas  one  we  long  had  sought,  and  caught  it  not, 

This  fish  that  got  away. 

But  of  this  creature  passing  fair, 

The  fame  alone  did  with  us  stay. 
We  could  but  sing  the  praises  to  our  friends, 

Of  the  fish  that  got  away. 

So  hopes  and  joys  that  fairest  seem, 

As  we  live  through  our  little  day, 
Are  hopes  and  joys  unrealized, 

The  fish  that  got  away.  —Ethel  M.  Bates, 


THE   LEAVES  ARE   DEAD. 

The  leaves  are  dead;  the  trees  bereft 
Bemoan  their  loss,  their  childless  love, 

And  lift  their  bony  hands  to  heaven 
In  protest  to  the  powers  above. 

The  leaves  are  dead,  save  where  a  few 
Yet  hang  on  boughs  of  stubborn  oak, 

Or  where  a  supple  vine  still  throws 
About  a  rugged  stump  its  scarlet  cloak. 

The  leaves  are  dead  that  once  in  mirth 
Rejoiced  with  every  wind  that  blew, 

And  shared  the  secrets  of  the  birds 
Or  heard  the  vows  of  lovers  true. 

The  leaves  are  dead;  the  crimson  hue 
That  made  the  woodlands  look  so  bright, 

Was  but  a  sign  of  coming  death, 
The  sunset  glow  before  the  night. 

The  leaves  are  dead;   in  rustling  heaps 
They  are  but  crushed  by  heedless  feet, 

The  sport  of  ev'ry  boisterous  wind, 
Are  blown  in  aimless  haste  along  the  street. 
65 


The  leaves  are  dead;  yet  why  complain? 

They  lived  their  life,  they  did  their  task; 
And,  when  at  last  'twas  done,  they  feel, 

A  better  fate  could  no  one  ask.        — Ethel  M.  Bates. 


AN    ANCIENT    BALLAD. 

O  gentle  folk,  if  you'll  draw  near, 

I'll  tell  you  a  tale  so  meet 
About  some  knights  of  great  renown 
Who  fought  for  their  lady  sweet. 

This  lady  lived  in  a  castle  strong, 

For  she  was  of  high  degree, 
That  stood  in  a  grove  of  ancient  oaks, 

On  the  strand  of  a  deep,  blue  sea. 

She  dight  herself  in  purple  robes, 

For  she  was  of  royalty. 
The  legend  writ  upon  her  shield 

Was  "those  things  true  that  be." 

And  in  her  halls  so  wide  and  fair, 
Were  many  a  dame  and  knight; 

For  here  were  found  good  cheer  and  joy 
And  welcome  to  every  wight. 

For  months  her  face  was  sad  and  grieved, 

For  she  had  suffered  shame, 
And  on  a  plain  called  Marshall  Field 

Had  lost  in  the  lists  her  fame. 

At  last,  spake  up  a  valiant  knight, 
"  O  merry  men,  come  with  me, 
And  we'll  go  down  to  Midwaytown, 
And  fight  for  our  lady." 

And  so  they  went  down  to  Midwaytown, 
For  to  clear  their  lady's  name. 

For  more  than  aught  in  the  world  besides 
They  loved  their  lady's  fame. 

In  all  the  world,  a  fairer  sight 
You  scarce  could  see,  they  say, 

Than  that  of  the  lists  at  Marshall  Field, 
Upon  that  fateful  day. 

For  of  maids  and  squires  all  busked  so  fair, 
There  was  a  mighty  throng; 

66 


And  the  knights,  the  flower  of  all  the  land. 
Were  dighl    in  armor  strong. 

The  noisy  trumpet's  hlare  was  heard: 

The  banners  fluttered  free; 
The  knights  who  tilted  in  the  lists 

Wore  the  color  of  their  lady. 

At  last,  the  signal  clear  was  given, 

And  then  the  joust  began. 
The  knights,  for  the  fame  of  their  lady, 

Did  tilt  with  might  and  main. 

And  when,  at  length,  the  sun  did  sink 

In  the  clouds  of  the  distant  west, 
The  judges  of  the  tourney  said 

The  purple  had  fought  the  best. 

And  thus  these  noble  knights  did  clear 

The  blot  from  their  lady's  name; 
And  thus  did  they  prove  to  that  country 

The  glory  of  her  fame. 

When  they  came  back  to  their  lady  fair, 

In  the  castle  by  the  sea, 
She  opened  the  portal  wide  and  said, 
"  My  merry  men,  come  to  me! 

1  And  I  with  honors  you  shall  crown, 

Because  of  your  loyalty; 
For  you  have  shown  my  right  to  wear 
The  purple  of  royalty!" 

And  still,  at  the  feasts  in  that  faraway  land, 

The  gleemen  sing  the  fame 
Of  the  valiant  knights  who  cleared  the  blot 

From  their  dear  lady's  name. 

And  would  ye  know,  dear  gentle  folk, 

Who  told  this  tale  to  me? 
'Twas  one  who  spake  it  with  many  a  groan 

And  very  reluctantly. 

His  hair  was  white  before  its  time; 

His  shoulders  with  cares  bent  down. 
Professor  Stagg  yclept  was  he. 

A  man  of  Midwaytown.  —Ethel  M.  Bates. 


r>7 


A  BAD   BOY. 

He  is  a  bad  little  boy.  He  never  goes  to  Sunday  school;  he  i& 
never  clean  except  on  Sunday  morning,  when  his  mother  scours  him 
up  as  she  does  her  kitchen  floor  on  Saturday,  as  a  part  of  her  regular 
week's  program;  and  he  stays  clean  only  for  the  short  space  of  time 
that  it  takes  him  to  scamper  to  the  nearest  mud  puddle.  He  never 
says  "Yes,  ma'am,"  and  "No,  ma'am,"  as  good  little  boys  do,  but  always 
"Yep"  and  "Naw."  We  first  made  his  acquaintance  one  evening, 
when  we  found  him  staring  in  at  a  shop  window  and  about  to 
swallow  a  bit  of  frosted  cake,  mutilated  almost  beyond  recognition,  that 
he  had  taken  from  the  bag  he  was  carrying  home  to  his  mother. 
When  we  called  his  attention  to  this  little  irregularity  in  conduct, 
he  gave  us  an  undaunted  look,  and  merely  remarked  that  his  "maw" 
didn't  care,  and  that  it  was  none  of  our  business  anyway,  a  fact 
that  we  could  not  gainsay. 

The  next  day  when  we  passed  his  dilapidated  home,  he  called 
attention  to  the  fact  that  he  was  sitting  upon  the  front  step  by  throw- 
ing at  us  with  unerring  aim  a  slushy  snowball,  and  from  that  moment 
we  were  fast  friends.  In  an  attempt  to  draw  him  out,  we  asked  him 
the  somewhat  trite  question  if  he  liked  to  go  to  school,  and,  to  our 
surprise,  received  an  enthusiastic  "You  bet."  Curious  to  know  just 
what  phase  of  our  public  school  system  most  appealed  to  him,  we  con- 
tinued, "What  do  you  do  there?"  "Aw,  we  have  recess,  and  fight,  and 
have  lots  of  fun."  Thus  were  dashed  the  hopes  for  his  future  that, 
for  one  brief  moment,  we  had  entertained.  Even  he  has  already  been 
impressed  with  some  of  the  solemnities  of  life,  for  when  one  day 
we  asked  him,  if  the  baby  he  was  wheeling  along  at  an  angle  of  sixty 
degrees  was  his  sister  he  said,  "Naw,  I  ain't  got  no  brothers  and  sisters. 
I  had  seven  onct,"  and  his  eyes  widened  as  if  with  a  premonition  of  the 
possible  calamities  in  store  for  him  as  he  added,  "They're  all  buried 
— 'cept  one,  and  she's  married."  Once  we  had  the  privilege  of  seeing 
him  thoroughly  frightened,  and  that  was  when,  in  trying  to  jump  across 
a  deep  ditch  of  muddy  water,  he  fell  in  and  stuck  in  the  mud  at  the 
bottom  (like  Achilles),  with  but  one  foot  left  dry.  We  pulled  him 
out  like  a  fly  from  molasses  and,  a  sorry  figure  in  water  color,  he 
trudged  away  in  the  opposite  direction  from  home,  doubtless  to  give 
his  clothes  time  to  dry  and  himself  an  opportunity  to  make  up 
a  story  to  tell  his  mother.  Only  once  have  we  ever  seen 
him  abashed,  and  that  was,  not  when  put  under  mock  arrest  by  a 
policeman  for  building  brick  forts  across  the  sidewalk,  nor  even 
when  chased  off  the  tracks  for  stealing  coupling  pins,  but  when,  one 
day,  guilty  of  a  bit  of  gallantry  of  which  he  was  manifestly  ashamed,, 
shuffling  up  to  the  porch,  and  throwing  into  my  lap  a  bunch  of  carna- 
tions culled  from  the  refuse  of  the  greenhouse,  with  a  confused 
"They're  for  you,"  he  rushed  down  the  street  to  escape  the  thanks 
with  which  I  was  inconsiderate  enough  to  shower  him.     Yes,  he  is  a 

68 


bad  little  boy.     We  would  not  have  anyone  think  for  a  moment  that 
his  conduct  receives  our  moral  approbation,  and  yet   tnen 
on  his  saucy  face,  a  glint  in  bis  roguish  eye,  that  makes  him  far  more 
interesting  than   any   of  the   Rood    little    hoys    we    have   ever    kn 
Ethel  M.  Bates. 

THE    QUEEN    OF    THE    HOrSEHOLD. 

She  has  been  waited  on  all  her  life.  Her  slightest  wish  is  law 
to  the  entire  household  from  the  cross-grained  Irishman  who  works 
in  the  stable  to  her  careless,  fourteen-year-old  brother.  She  has 
but  to  droop  her  eyelids,  and  someone  lowers  the  shade,  shutting 
out  the  offending  light.  She  can  always  have  a  partner  for  cribbage 
or  someone  to  read  to  her  when  she  is  tired.  By  common  consent, 
all  dainties  are  first  offered  to  her,  and  the  earliest  bunch  of  spring 
flowers  is  her  unchallenged  right.  Yet  this  queen  is  not  a  stately, 
imperious  tyrant,  but  only  a  pale-faced  girl,  whose  throne  is  a  wheel- 
chair. Never  by  word  or  deed  does  she  express  the  slightest  dis- 
content with  her  narrow  life,  yet,  when  you  come  in  glowing  with 
fresh  air  and  exercise,  there  is  a  wistful  look  in  the  brown  eyes,  a 
droop  of  the  tremulous  lips  that  make  you  feel  as  if  you  had 
somehow  robbed  her,  and  you  are  eager  to  make  any  possible  repara- 
tion. It  is  her  patient,  almost  cheerful  resignation  to  the  lack  of 
joyousness  in  her  life  that  gives  the  situation  pathos.  Thus  it  is 
that  this  palefaced  queen,  unconscious  of  her  power,  compels  the 
willing  homage  of  those  about  her.— Ethel  M.  Bates. 


BELLEVUE  SKETCHES. 
HOW  THE  COLOR-LIXE  WAS  OBSERVED  AT  BELLEVTE. 

"Tawmas  Jeff'son!"  Aunt  Mari'  at  the  open  door  of  her  cabin, 
pronounced  this  illustrious  and  revered  name  with  a  rising  inflection 
that  was  portentous.  Not  from  the  tomb,  however,  but  from  a 
cherry-tree,  near  by,  came  the  answer  in  a  thin  treble  with  a  sliding 
inflection,   "Hyah — I — is." 

"Am  yo'  up  dat  cher'y-tree  agin?" 

•No,  mammy."  And  at  that  instant  he  wasn't.  But  having  been 
forcibly  deprived  of  a  necessary  portion  of  his  trousers  on  the  way 
do-vn,  little  Tawm  had  some  difficulty  in  preserving  the  serenity  of 
countenance  compatible  with  truth.  However,  his  manifest  depend- 
ence upon  the  tree  for  hiding  certain  defects  of  clothing  turned  his 
mother's  attention  from  the  loss  of  her  treasured  cherries  to  her 
son's  obvious  predicament.  Shutting  her  eyes  and  flattening  her 
thick  lips  in  a  manner  suggestive  of  a  sleepy  mud-turtle,  with 
an  ominous  loss  of  voice,  she  continued,  "Tawmas  Jeff'son,  w'at  I  done 
tole  yo'  'bout  gibben  me  no  lies?"  The  silence  which  followed  this 
significant    question    seemed    to    little    Tawm    to    be    buzzing    with    a 

69 


swarm    of    threatening    hornets;    until,    from    somewhere    up    above, 
an  amateurish  whistle  smote  gladness  to  his  vibrating  heart. 

"Hi,  thyah,  Aunt  Mari',  don'  you  dyah  tuh  tetch  Tawm!"  And  the 
heir  of  Bellevue,  like  the  young  monkey  that  he  was,  swung  into 
view  from  a  laden  branch  of  the  cherry-tree,  and  dropped  at  her  feet. 

"Ef  you  lick  anybody,  I'm  the  fellah."  He  squared  his  resolute 
little  shoulders  for  poor  Tawm's  share  of  the  expected  slipper,  which 
he  knew  from  long  observation  was  ever  within  easy  reach;  but 
this  time  the  slipper  remained  on  its  owner's  foot.  "I  made  him 
climb  up  thyah." 

The  turtle  aspect  had  by  that  time  left  Mari's  broad  features, 
and  a  maelstrom  of  emotions  was  heaving  her  mighty  bosom.  "Dis 
hyah  hain't  none  o'  yo'alls  business,  Marse  Geo'gie.  He  done  bust 
he  pants,  fo'  I  hyahed  'em  rip."  A  statement  which  was  quite  true, 
for  the  tearing  of  stout  blue-jean  cannot  be  mistaken  for  any  other 
sound;  and  Mari',  like  Elijah  of  old,  looked  to  the  rending  of  the 
heart  and  not  of  garments. 

"Ef  that's  all,"  commented  the  would-be  Damon,  turning  to  his 
trembling  Pythias,  "come  up  to  the  house,  an'  I'll  give  you  a  payh 
o'  mine."  With  a  furtive,  back-reaching  motion,  Tawm  gathered 
himself  together,  and  before  his  mother  could  plan  a  method  of 
attack,  the  two  lads  were  off,  neck  and  neck,  over  the  clover-dotted 
field;  around  by  the  portico  into  the  cool,  dim  hall;  past  horrified 
Cousin  Betty;  up  the  polished  oak  staircase,  their  small  bare  feet 
patting  in  happy  unison;  and,  at  last,  safe  and  breathless,  into 
the  bedroom  of  the  young  master,  whose  wardrobe  was  duly  offered  to 
his  bulging-eyed  beneficiary.  That  Tawm  did  not  select  a  natty  little 
pair  of  black  velvet  knickerbockers  was  entirely  owing  to  the  fact 
that  they  were  much  too  wide  for  his  slender  body;  but  in  order  to 
choose  with  discretion,  each  pair  of  tweed,  flannel  or  pique  trousers 
was  tried  on  with  infinite  pride,  and  the  effect  noted  in  the  mirror.  At 
last,  arrayed  to  his  visible  satisfaction  in  a  pair  of  cream-colored 
cloth  knee  breeches  with  a  red  percale  shirt  and  a  blue  silk  tie 
added  by  the  generous  owner,  little  Tawm  went  down  to  his  humble 
home  uplifted  in  heart  and  with  hands  in  real  pockets.  His  mother 
did  not  need  her  spectacles  to  be  aware  of  his  approach,  because  his 
new  shirt  made  a  brilliant  blotch  of  color  upon  the  gray-green  of 
the  orchard  that  Corot  might  have  longed  to  put  on  an  immortal 
canvas.  But  she  affected  not  to  see  him,  until  he  illuminated  the  small 
kitchen  with  his  effulgent  presence. 

"Huh!  yo'  mighty  fine,  tuh  be  sho!  Wha  dem  pants  yo'  done  to'e?" 
"Hannah  done  chucked  'em  entuh  de  raig-baig."  Again  the  mud- 
turtle  expression  began  to  possess  her  fat  features.  She  put  down 
her  flatiron,  leaving  a  shirt-waist  of  Miss  Betty's  sticking  to  the 
ironing-sheet,  and  disappeared  into  her  bedroom;  where,  presently, 
sounds  issued  suggestive  of  a  strenuous  change  of  attire.     When  she 

70 


finally  emerged,  she  seemed  to  have  been  converted  into  a  peripatetic 
checker-board,  while  upon  her  head  was  a  flower-garden  run  to  seed 
and   shaken  by  the  palsy.     She  spoke  not  a   word,   but  her  tread   WM 

thunderous;  and  the  tones  of  her  Sunday  costume  preceded  her  all 
the  way  to  the  great  house,  where  "Miss  Sue"  with  languid  surprise 
received  her  on  the  porch. 

"Why.  Aunt   Mari".  you  look  like  a  wedding:*' 

"Law,  Miss  Sue,"  the  subtle  sweet  of  suspected  compliment  honey- 
ing her  simmering  wrath.  "Law.  Miss  Sue,  ma'aige  ain'  no  ra'ty 
tub  me  wid  tree  husban's  en  de  grab-yahd.  I'se  jes'  er  po'  widdah- 
ooman,  an'  I  jes  wahnts  tuh  meet  up  wid  dat  triflin'  Hannah  wha's 
tho'ed  erway  some  o'  meh  chile's  prop'ty."  Her  complaint  "being 
elucidated  by  little  George  and  the  contemptuous  Hannah,  restitution 
was  made  to  her  of  such  remnants  of  Tawm's  apparel  as  the  cherry- 
tree  had  spared:  and  Mari'.  in  all  her  glory,  felt  that  she  was  not 
outdone  by  any  of  "dem  low-down  house-niggahs."  and  always  boasted 
of  her  formal  call  upon  "Miss  Sue." — Helen  Clark  Balmer. 


NED'S  CHOICE. 

When  "Uncle  Peter's"  infirmities  compelled  him  to  be  retired  from 
long  and  honorable  service  as  butler  at  Bellevue,  the  choice  of  a  suc- 
cessor naturally  fell  upon  his  son  Ned.  And  certainly  it  was  a 
relief  not  to  hear  the  list-slipper-shuffle  of  the  rheumatic  old  servitor, 
who  was  apt  to  pour  ice-water  into  a  silken  lap  or  scalding  soup  down 
a  broadcloth  back.  For  Ned,  in  his  immaculate  linen  coat  or  neat 
Tuxedo,  was  the  embodiment  of  alertness,  silence,  and  pose.  Then, 
for  the  first  time,  the  small  boy  of  Bellevue  learned  that  Ned's  real 
"baptized-name"  was  "Edwa'd  Ev'rett  Dan'l  Webstah,"  a  circumstance 
which  promptly  cemented  a  bond  between  the  two  loyal  Americans, 
and  established  an  understanding  better  expressed  in  warm  hand- 
clasps on  the  part  of  the  one  and  in  macaroons  or  olives  on  the 
part  of  the  other.  At  once  becoming  so  conspicuous  a  figure  in  the 
dining-room,  Ned  in  his  exalted  station  soon  won  the  homage  of  the 
housemaids.  Even  Aunt  Tempe,  in  the  kitchen,  felt  his  importance; 
and  it  was  not  in  human  nature  to  be  indifferent  to  such  wholesale 
coquetry;  nor  was  it  possible,  with  so  many  claimants  upon  his 
attention,  to  make  a  choice,  for — to  use  his  own  words — "Twahn't  no 
fun  gwine  steddy  wid  one  gal,  'cep  yo'  mean  one  at  a  time!" 

So  it  happened  that  the  guesses  of  the  family  as  to  the  girl 
of  Ned's  choice  often  changed  with  mercurial  swiftness,  since  the 
information  upon  which  depended  their  enlightened  conjectures  was 
by  way  of  the  omniscient  small  boy.  It  is  highly  probable  that  Ned 
often  confided  in  him  about  these  yellow  or  brown  inamoratae,  because 
he  occasionally  seemed  to  have  some  cogent  facts,  which  were  usually 
coaxed  out  of  him  by  Aunt  Tempe's  delectable  cookies.     But,  at  last, 

71 


Ned's  long  hesitation  came  to  an  end;  and  the  combined  family- 
breathed  freer  when  it  was  known  that  "Marse  Dick  had  been  re- 
quested to  fetch  'a  weddin'  license  de  ve'y  nex'  time  he  done  gwine 
tuh  de  city." 

Ned  was  absent  on  an  errand  to  a  neighboring  plantation  the 
morning  that  a  telegram  called  Mr.  Dick  to  Richmond;  and,  wishing 
to  please  his  obliging  servant  by  procuring  the  license,  the  young 
man  anxiously  inquired  of  the  family  as  to  the  name  of  the  pros- 
pective bride.  Was  it  to  be  Jane,  Hannah,  Fannie,  'Liza,  or  Mollie? 
None  could  say,  until  up  stepped  the  important  small  boy  with  a 
long  whisper  in  his  uncle's  ear. 

"All  right,  my  boy,  I'll  get  it;  and  we'll  surprise  Ned,  to-night, 
with  his  license  all  ready  for  him." 

At  dinner-time  Ned  could  not  account  for  his  little  confidant's 
small  appetite  nor  for  the  mysterious  summons  to  his  master's 
study  before  clearing  the  table.  But  when,  in  the  presence  of  the 
gentleman  and  little  George,  the  official  paper  was  given  him  with 
this  appropriate  remark,  "There,  Ned,  I  hope  that  Hannah  and  you 
will  be  happy,"  consternation's  awful  dew  slowly  gathered  on  his 
brow. 

"Lawd,  Marse  Dick,  twahn't  Hannah,  but  'Liza!" 

"'Liza!  Oh,  very  well,  Ned!  Sorry  for  my  mistake,  but  I  can 
have  it  changed,  of  course."     Ned  did  not  withdraw. 

"Marse  Dick,  how  much  dis  hyah  license  cost?" 

"Two  dollars." 

"An'  hit  cost  two  mo'  tuh  put  'Liza's  name  hyah,  Marse?" 

"Yes,  of  course." 

"Well,  den,  Marse  Dick,  nevermine.  Dyah  ain'  two  dollars  dif- 
funce  twix'  dem  gals,  an'  I'll  jes  mar'y  Hannah."  And  he  did. — Helen 
Clark  Balmer. 

BELLEVUE  BY  MOONLIGHT. 

"  Would  you  see  dear  Bellevue  aright? 
Come  view  it,  then,  by  the  pale  moonlight" 
that  filters  through  the  April  green  of  cottonwood  and  oak  and  elm 
to  touch  with  splendid  mystery  house  and  grounds  and  river;  when 
the  deep-vined  portico  is  black  with  gloom  and  the  lawn  is  a  shim- 
mering pool  of  silver  water,  while  lace-like  shadows  tremble  on  the 
brink,  and  the  night-jar  skims  the  mimic  billows  thrilling  each  timid 
thing  that  creeps  or  flies  with  his  hollow  challenge  to  "whip-poor- 
will." 

The  young  screech-owls  know  it  is  time  to  be  up,  for  "mother" 
is  off  hunting  wee  birds  for  their  supper.  Alas,  for  the  soft  pretty 
creatures!  many  a  song  will  be  lost  to  the  summer.  From  their  nest 
in  the  lilacs,  the  thrushes  are  piping  sweet  gutturals,  as  if  trying  to 
learn  a  new  tune;   and  the  mocking-bird  on  the  hill  is  beginning  his 

72 


musical  medley.  A  brown  rabbit  is  thridding  the  Bhadows,  bis  drab 
nose  aquiver  with   tear,  lest  the  lazy  old  house-dog  may  spy  him  and 

seize  him.  But  to-night,  just  two  ancient  friends  stand  there  in  the 
moon-shower, — a  broken-nosed  Venus  and  the  huntress,  Diana.  Lacking 
her  bow  and  a  finger  or  two,  while  the  pure  flood  of  heaven  is  touch- 
ing their  scars  with  tenderest  healing.  The  tumbled-down  summer- 
house  gleams  a  fretwork  of  marble — a  mosque  for  some  worshipping 
spirit  to-night.  The  cabins,  the  barns,  and  the  blossoming  orchards 
have  a  netting  of  silver;  the  vanes  and  the  gables  are  pointed  with 
gold;  and  where  the  old,  ruined  steps  lead  down  to  the  river,  a  path- 
way of  glory  is  flowing  to  meet  the  dark  waters  that  slide  past  to 
the  sea. 

And  here  you  may  view  best  the  venerable  mansion  amid  its  weird 
splendors  of  night  and  of  story;  though  memories  vie  with  each 
other  for  the  right  to  begin.  The  past  and  the  present  are  mingled 
so  strangely; — the  life  that  is  gone  forever  flows  on  as  it  gave  of  its 
spirit  the  greatest  and  best — not  in  words  but  in  thoughts — that 
soul  might  touch  soul  to  make  the  race  kinder  and  better. 

What  does  it  matter  that  five  generations  of  heroes  were  born 
here  and  won  names  immortal  for  state  and  for  land!  if,  for  them- 
selves and  their  House,  they  had  fought  on  towards  victory,  such 
a  fame  would  be  worthless  in  the  annals  of  country!  But  to  help 
wrest  a  great  nation  from  intolerant  England,  to  clutch  from  the 
Spaniard  possessions  of  value,  and  to  set  free  a  sad  people — this 
charged  the  hot  blood  through  the  veins,  of  Bellevue  and  sent  her 
sons  to  die  in  the  red  tumult  of  battle  and  to  weld  the  States  firmly 
with  the  hammer  of  war. 

So,  old  House,  you've  passed  through  many  a  season  of  change 
and  of  sorrow,  and  the  scars  of  conflict  are  to  be  seen  on  your  brow! 
For  once,  from  the  river,  a  wild  shell  unroofed  you  and  falling 
spent  mid  the  rose-trees  found  a  fit  nest  with  the  thorns.  A  banner 
of  flame  once  threatened  your  walls;  but  still  from  the  flag-staff  ever 
waved  proud  "Old  Glory,"  faded  and  tattered,  shot  at  and  scorned! 

So  dream  on  in  your  memories,  0  Bellevue,  the  noble,  for  these 
teeming  visions  baffle  my  pen;  fain  would  I  paint  this  wondrous  scene 
before  me!  But  when  I  must  look  my  last  on  you,  dear  House,  may  it 
be  in  moonlight,  when  the  spring  is  here. — Helen  Clark  Balmer. 


A   PROPER  PERSPECTIVE. 

One  rainy  morning  little  Tawm  was  a  messenger  of  unwelcome 
tidings  from  Uncle  Peter,  who  sent  his  "p'ofoundes'  'spec's  tuh  Miss 
Sue,  hopin'  dat  she  scuse  him,  caze  he  done  bleeged  stay  en  baid 
wid  de  rheumatiz."  Miss  Sue,  who  was  herself  a  victim  of  neuralgia 
that  wet  morning,  had  one  of  her  sudden  qualms  of  sympathy.  "Po 
'ole   creature!     I   know   that    he  needs   something;    and    if   Fannie  or 

73 


Jane  knew  enough  to  keep  a  hot-waterbottle  hot,  or  Tempe  wasn't 
as  cross  as  a  rattlesnake  with  the  toothache,  I'd  send  one  of  them  to 
look  after  him." 

Betty  put  down  the  old  curtain  which  she  had  been  mending. 
"I  will  go,  Cousin  Sue." 

"You,  Betty!  I  thought  that  you  couldn't  byah  Uncle  Peter!" 
But  Betty  was  looking  through  the  tossing  branches  of  the  cotton- 
woods  and  elms  beyond  the  rain-drenched  garden  to  the  other  hill- 
top, crowned  by  that  serene  little  city  of  Bellevue's  past,  where  a 
gray  shaft  of  polished  granite,  much  newer  than  most  of  the  leaning 
headstones  surrounding  it,  seemed  to  lift  a  tapering  finger  as  if 
commanding  silence.  She  recalled  Miss  Sue's  recent  pathetic  disclosure 
of  the  family's  indebtedness  to  the  old  servants  for  the  erection 
of  that  monument;  and  only  yesterday  she  had  surprised  Uncle 
Peter,  as  he  knelt  beside  the  grave,  weeding  out  with  patient  fingers 
every  rank  growth  that  marred  the  smooth  green  pall.  Again  her 
thoughts  flowed  to  the  soft,  slow  sound  of  Uncle  Peter's  voice. 

"Yas,  Miss,  I  comes  hyah  right  much  tuh  'tend  de  fambly  grabes. 
I  cahnt  read,  no'm;  but  manys  an'  manys  de  times  I  done  put  mah 
fingers  en  dem  lettahs  on  de  moniments  jes  tuh  larn  de  feel  ob  readin'. 
Dis  hyah  one  say,  'Geo'ge,  bohn  at  Bellevue,  Virginia,  kell  at  Fair 
Oaks!'  (Littl'  Marse  Geo'gie  can  read  me  dat  now.)  Den  dyah's  er 
'June'  en  two  places;  an'  de  numbahs  am  a  one,  an'  a  eight,  an'  a 
fo',  an'  a  t'ree; — an'  den  one,  an'  a  eight,  wid  a  six,  an'  a  two. 
Dats  how  ole  meh  young  marster  am.  I  membah  lak  'twas  yistuhday, 
him  a-sittin'  on  dat  dyah  Ma'y  Wiley,  de  ho'se  dat  he  ride  'way  on 
tuh  de  wah.  Eph  was  he  sarvint,  an'  he  ain'  nevah  know  nuttin' 
much  sense  young  Marse's  body  come  home  by  de  Richmon'  packet. 
Eph's  meh  twin  brudder,  an'  he  jes  keep  livin'  ovah  dem  dark  wah- 
times  sence  dat  brain  fevah  done  lef  him  all  de  time  waitin'  fo',  an' 
'spectin'  po'  Marse  Geo'ge.  But  de  res'  ob  us, — we — all  fo'gits — 'cep'n 
fo'  dese  hyah  grabes.  I  reckon  Gawd  wahnts  we — all  tuh;  but,  some- 
time, I  feels  mighty  lonesome  fo'  dem  ole  days  befo'  de  wah;  an' 
beggin'  de  Lawd's  pard'n,  I  tries  tuh  keep  dis  hyah  place  lak  a  putty 
room  fo'  meh  ole  mistresses  an'  marsters,  w'en  dey  chahnce  tuh  look 
down  f'om  dyah  home  en  Glory." 

"Betty,  child,  what  are  you  starin'  at?" 

"I  am  only  getting  a  proper  perspective,  Cousin  Sue."  With  which 
occult  remark  the  young  girl  left  the  room;  and  ten  minutes  later 
Uncle  Peter  had  good  reason  to  believe  that  "an  angel  came  and  min- 
istered unto  him." — Helen  Clark  Balmer. 


EPHRAIM  THE  FAITHFUL. 

The  daily  packet  from  Richmond  passing  by  Bellevue  made  the 
chief  event  of  the  day;   and  as  the  boat  could  usually  be  relied  upon 

7-1 


to  appear  about  eleven  o'clock,  it  became  a  kind  of  unique  time- 
piece by  which  the  great  house  measured  its  morning  activities. 
Although  river  travel  was  not  altogether  abandoned  for  the  more 
rapid  mode  of  transit  by  rail,  yet  many  years  had  elapsed  since  a 
passenger  or  a  package  of  merchandise  had  been  brought  to  Bellevue 
by  steamer.  But  regularly,  each  day,  so  soon  as  the  faint  throb  of 
the  engine  could  be  heard  rumbling  out  its  steady  advance-notes,  a 
light  skiff  might  be  seen  leaving  the  green  shelter  of  the  shore  to 
skim  the  yellow  water  like  a  stray  duckling  seeking  its  vagrant 
mother.  As  the  large  white  creature  swam  majestically  into  sight, 
sitting  the  summer  flood  as  became  the  queen  of  the  aquatic  realm,  her 
little  one  seemed  to  flutter  excitedly,  diving  into  the  foamy  waves, 
rising  and  falling  with  the  motions  imparted  to  the  passive  river  by 
the  rhythmic  flash  of  the  paddle-wheel. 

From  the  old  marble  steps  of  the  boat-landing  Cousin  Betty  often 
watched  this  daily  meeting  of  skiff  and  steamer.  She  knew  how 
some  one  would  lean  over  the  railing  to  answer  the  old  rower's  change- 
less question  with  that  gentle  deference  that  Virginians  make  a  part 
of  their  religion. 

"No,  Uncle  Eph,  he  ain't  come.  Reckon  he'll  be  'long  tuhmorrah. 
Ain't  got  them  lettah's,  neither.    Mighty  sorry,  Uncle,  but  come  again." 

"Yas,  sun;  yas,  suh,"  answered  the  weak  but  in  no  way  hopeless 
voice  of  the  negro,  as  he  skilfully  eluded  imminent  collision  with  the 
big  boat.  "Yas,  suh,  I'se  boun'  be  hyah  tuhmorrah."  Then  a  wave  of 
the  bony  black  hand,  a  pleasant,  cheery  word  of  farewell  from  the 
captain,  and  Uncle  Eph  turned  shoreward  again  for  the  ten  thou- 
sandth time,  perhaps.  In  rain  or  sunshine,  through  all  the  months 
from  March  to  December,  he  never  failed  to  take  that  solitary  trip. 
It  almost  seemed  to  the  dreamy  eyes  watching  him  that  the  constant 
cutting  of  the  sharp  little  keel  must  have  worn  a  pathway  through 
the  still  water.  Betty's  yearning  imagination  saw  it  all;  and  the 
long  years  of  faithful  waiting  for  the  young  master  who,  to  Uncle 
Eph's  simple  mind,  was  still  a  soldier  fighting  his  country's  battles, 
wrote  a  wordless  history  in  her  young  heart. — Helen  Clark  Balmer. 


THE  DEFEAT  OF  THE  CONQUERORS. 

"What  was  that  queer  sprawling  object  lying  on  top  of  the  ash- 
barrel?"  That  was  what  the  four  inquiring  rogues  would  like  to 
know;  for  they  had  not  been  long  enough  in  this  world  to  pretend  to 
have  found  out  everything;  and  here  was  a  chance  to  add  to  their 
store  of  facts. 

"Alexander  the  Great"  stood  first  in  the  line,  as  became  his  repu- 
tation for  looking  around  for  more  worlds  to  conquer;  but  he  was  being 
visibly  crowded  and  shoved  by  "Napoleon  Bonaparte,"  who  evidently 
meant  to  have  the  principal  nose  in  the  affair;    while  "Ulysses  Simp- 


son  Grant"  seemed  to  be  divided  between  the  purpose  of  pacifying  his 
belligerent  brothers  and  the  determination  to  fight  "something,"  if  it 
took  the  long  summer  day;  and  "Scipio  Africanis"  brought  up  the  rear 
with  an  amiable  deference  to  the  usages  of  modern  warfare.  Thus 
the  phalanx  of  world-conquerors  approached  the  castle  (i.  e.,  the  ash- 
barrel)   with  sniffing  noses,  bulging  eyes,  and  supine  tails. 

At  nearer  view  the  odd  creature  commanding  the  gray  tower 
assumed  a  more  human  aspect.  The  bit  of  linsey-woolsey  mysteriously 
fluttering  in  the  warm  June  breeze  suggested  the  familiar  ragged  coat 
of  one  of  his  little  masters,  and  "Alexander"  with  joyful  canine  confi- 
dence pounced  upon  the  object,  which  suddenly  descended  in  a  shower 
of  ashes  and  a  ruin  of  mildewed  garments  to  flap  its  limp  kid  arms 
and  dirty  cotton  anatomy  straight  in  the  face  of  "Napoleon,"  who  met 
this  ignominious  "Waterloo"  and  fled  yelping  from  the  field  to  upset 
"U.  S.  Grant,"  as  that  never-before-vanquished  soldier  was  about  to 
reinforce  the  attacking  party.  "Scipio,"  surprised  at  this  strange 
manoeuvre,  but  doubtless  attributing  it  to  nineteenth  century  tactics, 
forbore  to  argue,  but  joined  most  vigorously  in  the  retreat,  the  latter 
being  an  evolution  common  to  all  ages.  By  this  time  the  house-yard 
was  far  too  small  for  the  fleeing  army,  and  the  wide  front  lawn 
seemed  covered  with  rolling,  terrified  puppies.  Little  Tawm,  hidden 
behind  the  ash-barrel,  peeped  out  just  in  time  to  see  the  last  tail  dis- 
appearing down  the  avenue  to  the  river;  and  fear  lest  his  pets  in 
their  fright  would  commit  suicide,  gave  speed  to  his  dusky  legs. 
Little  George,  sedately  walking  with  Cousin  Betty  in  all  the  rigor  of 
his  Sunday  attire,  dropped  that  young  lady's  lace  parasol  in  the  dust 
and  joined  the  vanishing  line,  whooping  and  gesticulating  in  wild 
pursuit. 

Ten  minutes  later  two  moist,  muddy  boys  appeared,  each  with  two 
subdued,  shivering  puppies  that  were  doomed  to  be  securely  fastened  in 
the  hot,  dark  kennel  for  the  remainder  of  the  long  summer  afternoon, 
while  Tawm  in  deep,  but  unexpressed  contrition  tried  to  make  amends 
by  feeding  them  "carryway"  cookies  through  the  bars  and  by  forbear- 
ing to  pinch  their  tails. 

But  no  one  thought  again  of  the  old  rag  doll  that  lay  face  down- 
ward in  the  as.hes.  The  refuse  barrel  had  been  her  funeral  pyre;  and, 
like  Dido  of  Carthage,  she  was  sacrificed  for  naught. — Helen  Clark 
Balmer. 


A    REJUVENATION. 

Cousin  Betty  certainly  approved  of  Bellevue;  but  sometimes  she 
would  shake  her  shrewd  little  Yankee  head  over  the  sad  state  of 
dilapidation  everywhere  apparent;  and  in  the  privacy  of  her  some- 
what barren  bedroom,  she  did  not  hesitate  to  utter  the  cold,  hard  com- 
prehensive New  England  term  of  reproach — "Shiftless."     Even  as  she 

76 


noted  the  soft,  delicate  hues  of  the  faded  draperies,  which  blended  so 
harmoniously  with  the  worn  coverings  of  chairs  and  box-seats  in  that 
touching  familiarity  of  friends  grown  old  together,  the  critic's  eye 
that  Miss  Betty  had  been  born  with  rapidly  took  in  the  deficiencies  of 
the  meagre   furnishings. 

The  present  mistress  of  Bellevue.  whose  early  life  had  been  dark- 
ened by  the  great  war,  had  far  more  fertility  of  pensive  recollection 
than  facility  with  her  needle;  and  Miss  Betty,  in  a  spasm  of  well- 
meant  helpfulness,  abandoned  her  intricate  Battenberg  patterns  to 
form  such  airy,  filmy  threads  in  the  chintz  and  dimity  of  a  hundred 
washings  as  made  Aunt  Mari.  the  laundress,  declare  that  "dat  Miss 
Betty  f'om  Boston  'most  cud  dahn  er  crack  en  er  chiny  plate." 

From  mending  curtains,  Betty  soon  passed  to  gluing  furniture  and 
regilding  tarnished  frames,  her  curative  touch  always  deftly  managing 
to  brush  off  the  bloom  of  age.  Clearly  she  belonged  to  that  class  of 
people  who  would  rebuild  the  Parthenon  or  scrub  the  Alh'ambra;  and 
her  imagination,  like  a  little  muscle,  seemed  to  clutch  at  the  weird 
and  the  unusual  only  to  drag  them  into  the  cold  light  of  common  day 
to  prove  their  reality.  It  was  this  passion  for  seeing  every  object  in 
its  practical  or  utilitarian  aspect  that  made  poor  Betty's  visit  often 
referred  to,  in  after-days,  as  "the  period  of  the  restoration." 

And  yet  Bellevue  had  good  cause  to  thank  the  skilful  fingers  for 
the  timely  stitches  and  the  beautifying  touches  which  brought  back 
something  of  the  vanished  charm  to  the  old  rooms,  for  Bellevue  ever 
remembered  the  summer  flitting  of  that  young,  enthusiastic  spirit 
among  its  old  loves  and  faded  memories. — Helen  Clark  Balmer. 


AUNT    MARIS    EASTER    BONNET. 

Owing  to  the  fact  that  Hannah,  after  her  marriage,  was  not  bound 
by  the  law  which  prevailed  in  the  household,  that  vivid  colors  must 
not  be  worn  by  the  maids  while  engaged  in  domestic  duties,  it  was 
reluctantly  conceded  by  the  colored  inhabitants  of  Bellevue  that  she 
was  thus  at  liberty  to  display  a  more  conspicuous  attire  and,  conse- 
quently, might  be  looked  upon  as  a  leader  of  fashion.  On  Sundays  and 
holidays,  however,  the  maids  were  exempt  from  this  restriction  in 
dress,  and  the  kitchen  and  servants'  quarters  duly  blossomed  out  with 
every  brilliant  and  unknown  species  of  millinery  and  seasonable  mate- 
rial, the  exuberance  of  color  being  all  the  more  pronounced  because 
of  the  six  days'  subjugation  of  vanity.  But  Aunt  Mari'.  by  reason  of 
living  in  the  most  pretentious  cabin  on  the  plantation,  felt  it  incum- 
bent upon  her  not  to  permit  any  former  "or'na'y  house-niggah"  to  lead 
in  so  vital  a  matter  as  bonnets. 

Miss  Betty,  therefore,  had  not  long  been  a  guest  of  the  family 
before  she  was  tentatively  approached  by  the  wily  old  servant  in  a 
manner  almost  elephantine  in  its  secretive  ardor;  for  the  emotions  of 


"envy,  malice,  and  all  uncharitableness"  toward  Hannah  always  con- 
verted Aunt  Mari's  respiratory  apparatus  into  a  mammoth  cauldron 
of  verbal  wheeziness;  and  a  less  serious-minded  young  lady  than 
Betty  could  hardly  have  complied  with  the  directions  for  trimming 
the  desired  bonnet. 

The  resources  of  Bellevue  for  fashionable  millinery  were  meagre, 
but  so  great  was  Aunt  Mari's  faith  in  the  deft  fingers  of  the  Northern 
visitor  that  a  fervor  of  inspiration  began  to  possess  even  that  calm 
young  person,  and  the  creation  (?)  of  an  Easter  bonnet  began  at  once 
under  the  delighted  supervision  of  the  expectant  wearer. 

Little  George  and  his  constant  shadow,  little  Tawm,  were  sent  to 
ransack  the  garret  for  sundry  labeled  bandboxes;  and  soon  the  breezy 
old  hall,  where  Betty  sat  almost  walled  in  by  a  white  pasteboard  tower, 
looked  as  if  a  prehistoric  Maypole  had  collapsed  upon  the  floor  in  all 
its  glory  of  fantastic  ribbons;  while  plumes,  buckles,  velvets,  laces, 
many  of  them  antedating  the  war,  were  strewn  about  in  a  marvel  of 
color  and  uselessness.  Among  them  all  stood  Aunt  Mari',  like  a 
bronze  statue  afflicted  with  asthma,  advising,  commenting,  admiring. 
For  an  hour  the  two  boys  reveled  in  antique  head-gear,  and  even 
Miss  Sue  condescended  to  be  interested  and  reminiscent,  as  certain 
long-forgotten  or  unknown  specimens  of  the  milliner's  art  came  to 
view.  Uncle  Peter  consented  to  become  a  self-adjustable  hat-tree  when 
the  boys  discovered  that  his  thin  old  shoulders,  elbows,  hands,  and 
head  were  convenient  pegs  upon  which  to  display  an  assortment  of 
"poke-bonnets,"  "flats,"  and  "sailors." 

Then  Mr.  Dick,  laden  with  books,  passing  clumsily  through  the 
luminous  tangle  of  "all  sorts  and  conditions"  of  bonnets,  facetiously 
begged  to  release  "the  poor  lady  of  Shalott"  from  her  embarrassing 
web.  His  pleadings  were  heartily  echoed  by  Aunt  Mari',  who,  about  to 
receive  the  completed  bonnet,  remarked: 

"Run  'long,  honey,  an'  I'll  pick  up  all  dese  'n.  Yo'  certney  'serves 
tuh  oleandah  en  de  gyarden  an'  pursue  dat  hyah  Shakespeah  wid 
Marse  Dick." 

A  half  hour  later  the  young  people  met  her  walking  cabinward, 
bareheaded  and  radiant. 

"Why,  Auntie,  aren't  you  going  to  wear  your  new  bonnet?" 

"Bless  yo'  soul,  chile,  not  en  dis  hyah  brilin'  sun.  Mebby  dis  hyah 
ole  haid  b'longs  tuh  all-yo',  but  I  'clar'  de  bonnit's  mine." — Helen 
Clark  Balmer. 


A    MISPLACED    BIRTHDAY. 

Little  Tawm  sat  up  in  bed  with  a  start,  his  eyelids  all  a-tremble, 
because  a  teasing  sunbeam  had  just  pricked  them  sharply,  and  he 
had  never  known  such  a  thing  to  happen  before.  Here  it  was  sun-up, 
and  "Mammy"  had  not  called  him!  Then  the  tiny  black  fingers  began 
to  fumble  with  a  buttonless  gingham  shirt  and  a  pair  of  diminutive 


homespun  trousers,  both  of  which  were  things  of  unsightly  "shreds 
and  patches. "  As  nature  had  supplied  him  with  a  sufficiently  dark 
covering  for  legs  and  feet  to  make  stockings  and  shoes  somewhat 
superfluous.  Tawm's  toilet  was  completed  so  soon  as  he  could  make 
both  garments  meet  with  the  aid  of  twine.  Afterward  he  slunk  down 
the  ladder  and  obtruded  his  shrinking  little  figure  into  the  fear-inspir- 
ing presence  of  his  mother.  Aunt  Mart',  who  stood  by  the  lidless  stove 
in  the  act  of  turning  a  huge  batter  cake  upon  the  griddle.  To  his 
amazement  an  oily  tongue  spoke  these  smooth  words: 

"Hi,  yo'  done  cotch  yo'  mammy,  'fo'  she's  ready  fo'  yo'.  Run  'long 
an'  wash  yo  alls  face  twell  I  done  bake  dis  hyah  brekfus  fo'  yo',  meh 
honey-chile." 

With  an  indescribable  caper  of  joy  Tawm's  bare  legs  and  feet  were 
dail  ress  visibly  active  as  they  twinkled  through  the  open  door  to 
kick  ecstatically  at  the  morning  skies  while  his  body  plunged  deep 
in  the  dew  leaded  grass.  This  was  his  usual  mode  of  ablution,  and 
he  presently  returned  with  moist,  shining  face  and  feet,  which  left 
an  exact  imprint  of  their  flatness  upon  the  clean  cabin  floor.  Aunt 
Mari'  blandly  motioned  him  to  the  table,  where  she  had  spread  a  news- 
paper, in  lieu  of  a  cloth,  and  placed  upon  it  a  cracked  plate  heaped 
with  slices  of  fried  bacon  and  smoking  batter-cakes.  Tawm  needed  no 
urging  to  draw  up  a  chair  and  begin  his  breakfast. 

"Hyah,  now,  honey,  Mammy's  done  cooked  yose  buffday  brekfus; 
an'  yo'  doan  hab  no  wuk  tuh  do  dis  hyah  blessed  day,  caze  hits  yo' 
buffday." 

The  child  looked  up  with  puzzled,  questioning  eyes.  <!Meh  buffday? 
Ain'  I  never  done  hab  no  buffday  befo',  Mammy?" 

"Urn — yas — cou'se  yo'  hab;  but  I  done  been  busy  mos'  times,  an' 
I  done  fo'git  'bout  hit." 

"Buffdays's  mighty  good  t'ings,  yo'  bet!"  was  the  muffled  response 
to  this  maternal  evasiveness.  At  last  a  long  sigh  and  a  slow  move- 
ment of  the  chair  signified  that  the  repast  was  finished;  and  Tawm, 
from  long  habit,  gathered  up  the  few  crumbs  and  carried  his  plate  to 
the  dishpan.  But  his  mother,  swooping  upon  him  with  gigantic  ten- 
derness, seized  the  plate  and  shoved  him  out-of-doors. 

"Dyah,  now,  mine  yo'  maw  w'en  she  tell  yo'  'bout  habin'  no  wuk 
tuh  do.     G  long  an'  play  lak  er  w'ite  chile."     And  Tawm,  nothing  loth, 

pr eared  down  the  path  towards  the  little  creek,  where  thick  bushes 
soon  hid  him  from  the  most  prying  eyes  of  mortals.  There,  seated  upon 
a  sagging  foot-bridge,  he  dabbled  in  the  clear  water,  and  chewed  the 
cud  of  idleness,  while  the  sun  poured  down  its  molten  fire  making  the 
cabin,  for  once,  the  most  intolerable  spot  on  the  plantation  of  Belle- 
vue. 

Aunt  Mari'  began  to  fidget  over  her  ironing-board,  fanning  her 
perspiring  face  with  a  voluminous  checked  apron,  and  gasping  for 
breath   whenever  the  torturing  breeze  blew   from   the  burning  fields. 

71) 


The  pail  and  the  kettle  were  as  dry  as  if  they  had  never  known  the 
luxurious  touch  of  water.  Aunt  Mari'  went  to  the  open  door,  but  no 
one  was  in  sight  and  the  blinds  of  the  great  house  were  drawn,  for  the 
family  were  spending  a  week  in  Richmond.  She  could  see  the  banks 
of  the  meandering  little  stream  below,  but  to  go  through  that  blister- 
ing heat  was  more  than  human  fleshiness  could  endure.  Thinking 
desperately  for  a  moment,  she  made  a  trumpet  of  her  fat  hands  and 
bawled  in  mighty,  far-reaching  tones,  "Tawm,  Tawmas  Jeff'son,  James 
Madison  Pitt!"  Again  those  illustrious  names  rolled  and  echoed 
through  the  hot,  still  atmosphere;  and  suddenly  a*  terrified,  shaking 
little  form  came  at  a  breakneck  speed  up  the  slope  towards  home. 

"Hyah!  yo'  Tawmas  Jeff'son,  tote  dis  hyah  bucket  tub  de  branch  fo' 
watah,  an'  doan  yo'  dyah  tuh  spill  er  drop." 

"W'y,  Mammy,"  whimpered  the  exhausted  child,  "I  ain'  workin' 
w'en  hits  meh  buffday!" 

"Law,  g'long,  boy;  I  done  mek  some  mistook.  Yo'  .buffday  was  las' 
momf." — Helen  Clark  Balmer. 


A    RIVER    SCENE. 

Come  erlong,  yo'  Bellevue  darkies, 
Ef  yo'  gwine  pile  on  tuh  dis  raf, 

Wha's  hyah  by  de  ole  stone  landin' 
Wid  sich  er  load'd  mek  yo'  laf. 

Dyah's  Hannah  wid  huh  pick'ninny 
He  woolly  haid  scrooched  by  huh  knee, 

Aunt  Mari'  nex'  Uncle  Petah; 
Fan  an'  Lize  'long  side  ob  me. 

Wha's  Aunt  Tempe  wid  dem  baskits? 

Ain'  gwine  leab  dem  nohow,  no! 
Set  up  straight  an'  mine  yo'  mannahs, 

W'ite  folks  am  watchin'  f'om  de  sho'. 

Git  dem  poles  up  quick,  yo'  Rastus! 

01  rivah  runnin'  swif  jes  now; 
Silvah  watah  cahn't  he'p  singin' 

Dat  laffln'  chune  eroun'  de  prow. 

"Lil'  Tawm,"  jes  drap  dat  fiddle! 

'F  I  catch  yo'  foolin'  wid  dat  bow 
Dyah'll  be  'bout  one  small  niggah, 

Mo'orless,  on  some-othuh  sho'! 

Heabe  on  boa'd  dose  watahmillions. 

Mek  room  for  shoat  an'  roastin'-cohn, 
Seems  lak  I  smells  "ole  barbecue," 

Or  somep'n  good,  suh,  sho's  yo'  bohn. 


Now  we'alls  off,  w'ite  folks  smilin', 

Reckon  dey  wisht  dis  raf  uz  deirs. 
Lil'  Tawra  yells  back  tub.  Marse  Geo'gie 

Tuh  run  home  quick  an'  say  he  prahs. 

Talk  erbout  yo'  "ole  times,"  darkies, 

Suramah  nights  wahn't  haf  so  fine! 
'Clar',  dat  moon  am  biggern  evah! 

Teks  him  tuh  know  jes'  w'en  tuh  shine. 

Heah  de  ripple  ob  de  rivah 

Es  we  poles  erlong  right  slow, 
Bre'kin'  up  de  moony  pictures 

An'  dem  lil'  stars  dats  drapped  below. 

Han'  me,  now,  meh  deah  ole  fiddle 

Twell  hit  chimes  up  cl'ar  an'  low 
Fit  for'  sweetheahts  an'  de  angels 

Es  I  'gin  draw  hits  singin'  bow. 

List'n  tuh  dat  blackbird's  whistle, 

Den  heah  de  ahnswer  of  dis  bow. 
T'ink  he  gits  er  sweetah  trimble 

Dan  meh  ole  wahbblahs  lak  tuh  show? 

Dat  ain'  me  yo'  heahs  erplayin', 

I  cahn't  mek  music — wish't  I  cud — 
Hits  dem  kisses  of  de  catgut 

W'en  hit  touch  de  magic  wood. 

Lan'   o'   Goshen,   dyah's  meh  honey 

Trimblin'  lak  er  leaf  ob  fern! 
(Cou'se  I  has  tuh  squeeze  huh  fingahs, 
But  twix'  two  gals,  w'ich  am  huhn?) 

Am  dose  teahs  I  sees  a-hangin' 

On  yo'  lashes  t'ick  an'  long? 
Sho,  sweetheaht,  Ise  jes'  er-foolin'; 

Yo'  ain'  jealous  ob  a  song! 

Lif  yo'  haid  up  lak  meh  Liza, 

I  flings  dis  fiddle  en  de  Jeemes, 
Wha  hits  moanin',  lovin'   croonin' 

On'y  mek  music  en  meh  dreams. 

Yo'  likes  hit?     Yo'  sho'   is  jokin'? 

Am  jes  waitin'  tuh  heah  me  play? 
Golly,  Lize,  I  bleeves  yo'se  smilin'; 
An'  Ise  been  fooled  de  ole,  ole  way. 

— Helen  Clark  Balmer. 
81 


THE   DISCONTENTED    FAY. 

The  moon  one  night, 

A  shallop  slight, 
Loosed  her  moorings  in  the  west. 

A  winsome  wight, 

In  sad  despite, 
Within  would  be  at  rest. 

"Take  me,"  he  cried, 

"Where   spirits   hide 
Their  pain  from  mortal  eyes, 

In  waves  of  light 

To  lose  this  blight 
And  drown  my  weary  sighs." 

The  horned  prow 

Is  drifting  now 
On  the  sea  of  azure  air. 

No  cloud  afloat, 

Beside  the  boat, 
Above  the  world  so  fair. 

On  that  blue  tide 

With   pennons   wide 
She  went  her  trackless  way 

Without   a   care, 

Safe,  sheltered  there, 
The  elf  in  rapture  lay. 

By  light  afar 

From  falling  star 
She  sighted  a  wondrous  lea, 

Where   timeless   lands 

Had  silent  sands 
That  rimmed  a  tideless  sea. 

A  filmy  strand 

Dropped  on  the  sand, 
Held  down  the  keel  at  last. 

The  fay  slept  on;  — 

There  was  no  sun 
O'er  that  island  of  the  Past. 

A  sound  remote, 

A  pleading  note, 
Now  filled  the  night  with  song. 

"Oh,  moon,"  he  cried, 

"Swift,  onward  glide; 
I've  lingered  here  too  long." 
82 


His  grief  grew  mute. 

That  heavenly  lute 
Had  stilled   it   in   its  birth. 

From  out  the  boat, 

A  starry  mote, 
The  fay  flew  down  to  earth. 

— Helen  Clark  Balmer. 


QUESTIONS. 
(As  written  for  a  very  little  boy.) 

You  funny  old  Man  in  the  Moon, 

What  do  you  do  all  night, 
As  you  sail  and  float  in  your  golden  boat 

Down  the  misty  streams  of  light? 

You  jolly  old  Man  in  the  Moon, 

What  do  you  find  to  see, 
As  you  rock  and  roll  in  that  golden  bowl, 

And  the  winds  sing  a  melody? 

You  cheery  old  Man  in  the  Moon, 

What  do  you  have  for  a  sail, 
As  you  skim  and  glide  on  the  glittering  tide, 

Where  the  stars  shine  dim  and  pale? 

You  lazy  old  Man  in  the  Moon, 

Do  you  know  how  to  row  a  boat? 
Do  you  sit  and  dream  on  that  quiet  stream, 

And  just  let  your  vessel  float? 

You  lonely  old  Man  in  the  Moon, 
Do  you  have  any  friends  up  there? 

Are  you  all  alone?     Have  you  homesick  grown, 
As  you  sail  on  that  sea  so  fair? 

You  friendly  old  Man  in  the  Moon, 
Do  you  signal  the  stars  you  meet, 

As  you  glide  on  through  in  that  sea  so  blue, 
And  the  ripples  dance  at  your  feet? 

You  strange  old  Man  in  the  Moon, 

Do  the  storms  ever  trouble  you? 
Do  the  waves  dash  high  in  that  stormy  sky, 

And  splash  your  boat  with  the  blue? 

You  wonderful  Man  in  the  Moon, 
With  your  merry,  laughing  eyes, 

83 


Do  you  sometimes  stop,  and  your  anchor  drop 
In  a  harbor  up  in  the  skies? 

You  funny  old  Man  in  the  Moon, 

Do  you  laugh  at  the  things  you  see? 

As  you  slyly  wink,  and  the  pale  stars  blink, 

Could  it  be  you're  laughing  at  me? 

— Helen  M.  Jewell. 


MISS     SEPTEMBER. 

Of  all  months  most  capricious  and  wayward,  Miss  September  is 
surely  enough  to  try  the  patience  of  any  methodical  person.  Some 
morning,  perhaps,  she  greets  us  with  coquettish  smiles,  only  to  frown 
in  apparent  anger  a  moment  later.  She  is  now  warm  and  cordial,  now 
cold  and  repulsive.  One  instant  she  approaches  us  with  an  appear- 
ance of  love,  and  the  next  she  strikes  us  roughly  on  one  side  and 
another,  like  a  spoiled  child.  Though  she  has  passed  the  age  when 
foolish  behavior  is  to  be  expected  from  her,  she  still  clings  to  her 
childish  moods.  She  is  always  bursting  into  tears  when  we  can  see 
no  possible  occasion  for  such  an  outbreak.  Coax  her  as  we  may,  bear 
with  her  as  we  will,  it  is  all  to  no  purpose,  until  her  old  uncle,  Sol 
himself,  puts  her  into  a  more  cheerful  frame  of  mind  in  his  bright 
way.  Then,  seemingly  ashamed  of  her  petulance,  she  comes  out  some 
morning  all  in  glistening  gray,  lifting  her  veil  now  and  then  to  give 
us  a  peep  at  the  coy,  blushing  maiden  behind.  So  she  spends  her 
days;  and  when  she  leaves  us,  we  hardly  know  whether  to  be  glad  or 
sorry,  but  we  must  at  least  agree  that,  of  all  impulsive,  winning, 
changeable  creatures,  Miss  September  is  the  most  entertaining. — Helen 
M.  Jewell. 


AN    OLD    MAN. 

Having  once  known  him,  it  is  impossible  to  forget  him,  and  ever 
afterwards  he  has  a  distinct  place  in  the  thought.  Short,  straight, 
and  thin,  his  scattered  gray  locks  falling  around  his  wrinkled  face,  his 
appearance  is  not  so  unusual  as  to  attract  more  than  a  passing  glance; 
yet  acquaintance  with  him  reveals  the  fact  that  in  his  eyes  the  Are 
of  youth  still  burns,  and  that  in  his  heart  it  is  summer  all  the  year 
round.  His  is  a  sympathetic  nature,  for  no  one  in  trouble  ever  appeals 
to  him  in  vain.  He  knows  each  one  of  his  many  workmen,  and  between 
him  and  them  a  genuine  fellow-feeling  exists.  The  servants  in  his 
home  watch  for  his  cheery  "good  morning"  and  his  friendly  smile, 
sure  that  with  such  a  fair  beginning  all  the  rest  of  the  day  will  be 
bright.  The  newsboys  look  for  him  night  and  morning,  for  his  sincere 
greeting  is  to  them  more  precious  than  money.  He  is  an  active  old 
man,  too.     "Haven't  missed  a  day  at  my  business  on  account  of  sick- 

84 


;.<    s  since  1  came  west,"  is  his  Frequent  boast.     indeed,  his  alert,  easy 

end  h?s   erect    bearing  testify  to  his  strength  and  vigor.     He  is 

no!:  especially  modest,  and  yet  his  little  vanities  are  so  innocent  that 

they  are  not  disagreeable.    "The  g  eatest  compliment  that  1  ever  have 

paid  to  me,"  he  sometimes  says,  "is  in  a  crowde  1  car.  Why!  people 
term  to  like  to  sit  by  me  instead  of  sitting  by  some  one  else.    They  can 

at  I  rm  kind  and  gentle,  and  that  I  won't  bite;  and,  I  tell  you,  I 
enjoy  it."  A  cheery  old  man  as  you  may  have  guessed,  for  he  often 
en1    rains    a    company   of    young   people    with    his   merry   jokes;    and 

•  a  large  circle  of  nieces  and  nephews  he  is  the  favorite  uncle. 
He  has  a  very  sociable  disposition.  At  a  large  reception  with  its  usual 
r  »f  strangers,  the  old  man  was  heard  to  remark,  "I've  spoken 
to  every  soul  in  this  house  to-night,  and  I  enjoy  it,  enjoy  it.  It's  the 
privilege  of  a  man,  and  an  old  one,  too.  No  one  resents  it,  and  I  count 
it  one  of  my  greatest  blessings  to  be  able  to  talk  to  any  one."  He  is 
tender-hearted,  never  ashamed  of  the  tears  that  come  to  his  eyes  at  a 
sad  story.  His  voice  often  breaks,  as  he  tells  of  some  needy  home 
that  he  has  visited,  in  his  efforts  to  relieve  the  poor.  He  is  a  cour- 
ageous old  man,  withal.  He  is  never  ashamed  at  any  place  to  speak 
for  the  Captain  under  whose  banner  he  has  marched  all  his  life 
through.  No  one  scoffs  when  he  spe?ks  of  his  spiritual  life,  for  he  is 
so  humble,  so  sweet,  and  yet  so  earnest,  that  none  dare  to  scorn  him. 
This  deep,  rich  side  of  his  nature  is  his  best.  Kind  and  tender,  active 
and  cheerful,  sympathetic  and  courageous,  surely  this  is  the  old  man  of 
whom  it  was  said,  "The  hoary  head  is  a  crown  of  glory,  if  it  be  found 
in  the  way  of  righteousness." — Helen  M.  Jewell. 

THE    EDITOR'S    PREDICAMENT. 

The  editor  of  the  Hobbes  City  Record  was  in  trouble.  Any  one 
might  have  known  that  he  was  worried  by  the  nervous  way  in  which 
he  chewed  his  stubby  pencil.  And  the  matter  was  serious,  for  as  yet 
he  had  no  poetry  for  the  "Contributors'  Column,"  and  it  was  an  estab- 
lished rule  that  some  kind  of  verses  should  stand  at  the  top  of  that  part 
of  the  paper.  He  had  all  winter  long  written  sonnets  about  impossible 
eyes  and  hair,  until  every  marriageable  woman  in  Hobbes  City  blushed 
if  she  met  him  on  the  street.  And  as  a  safe  subject  he  had  turned 
to  snow,  "the  clear,  pure  snow."  Rainy  days  had  received  due  atten- 
tion, and  in  last  week's  paper  his  "bruised  heart"  had  been  flaunted 
with  touches  of  ghastly  realism.  And  now  his  weary  mind  failed  to 
suggest  any  other  possibilities.  All  at  once  his  eyes  brightened,  and 
he  exclaimed,  "Spring  is  here."  Why  had  he  not  thought  of  it  sooner, 
for  it  had  surely  come?  Were  not  the  streets  of  beautiful  Hobbes  City 
full  of  mud,  and  had  not  a  few  blades  of  muddy  grass  appeared  under 
his  window?  And  there  was  old  Abe  Green's  chair  sitting  in  front  of 
the  postoffice,  where  it  remained  all  summer  to  be  transferred  in  winter 

85 


to  a  position  near  the  stove  in  the  center  of  the  store.  And  old  Abe 
himself  had  just  appeared,  his  thin  shoulders  straightened  a  little  as 
if  he  had  a  feeling  of  the  importance  of  his  position  as  king  of  loafers. 
The  editor,  turning  from  all  these  signs  of  spring,  began  to  scribble 
rapidly.  After  working  hard  for  ten  minutes,  he  smiled,  counted  his 
lines,  and  smiled  again.  Just  as  he  had  thought,  there  were  fourteen. 
Then  he  tipped  back  his  chair  and  read  in  a  satisfied  tone, 

"Spring,  spring,  beautiful  spring!" 

Very  good,  although  he  remembered  that  he  had  heard  some  such  senti- 
ments expressed  before. 

\ 
"Oh!  what  a  thrill  to  the  heart  you  bring!" 

i 
Had   Tennyson  ever  written  anything  better  than  that? 

"The  sky  is  clear,  the  sky  is  blue. 
Beautiful  sky  to  me  and  you!" 

Was  there  anything  at  all  personal  in  the  "you"?  He  decided  that 
there  was  not. 

"The  birds  sing  sweet  from  the  mantling  trees, 
And  rock  and  dance  in  the  gentle  breeze." 

Two  or  three  nice  uses  of  words  in  that  couplet. 

"The  aged  and  young  who've  imprisoned  been 
Creep  out  to  the  grateful  warmth  again." 

All  right  to  that  point. 

"The  ice-bound   streamlets   now  are  free, 
And  rush  away  to  the  deep  blue  sea." 

Exquisite! 

"Old  Winter  lies  in  a  prison  dark, 
And  will  never  dare  from  it  to  start. 
So  hail,  hail  to  beautiful  spring! 
Oh!   what  bliss  to  my  heart  you  bring!" 

And,  as  the  editor  realized  that  at  last  he  was  on  safe  ground  with 
such  an  impersonal  subject  before  him,  a  smile  of  real  bliss  came  into 
his  face. — Helen  M.  Jewell. 


IN    THE    BARN-YARD. 

On  this  bright,  cold  morning  the  barn-yard  is  full  of  stir  and 
bustle.  The  calves,  busily  munching  their  breakfast  of  crackling  corn- 
stalks, push  each  other  roughly  aside  in  their  efforts  to  share  alike. 

86 


Their  moist,  pink  r.oses  are  thrust  out  inquiringly  at  every  unusual 
sound,  but  their  feast  soon  calls  them  hack.  The  pigs  in  their  sties 
grunt  over  their  corn,  or  huddle  close  together  in  the  heaps  of  straw. 
their  fat  si-les  steaming  with  warmth.  A  flock  of  ducks,  disturbed  by 
a  sudden  noise,  waddle  clumsily  over  the  frozen  ground.  One  plump 
duckling  can  scarcely  lift  his  cold  feet,  so  he  hops  for  a  little  distance, 
and  then  tucks  one  leg  up  among  his  warm  feathers.  The  leader  struts 
on  with  his  important  "quack,  quack,"  unconscious  of  everything  but 
his-  prominent  position.  In  a  sunny  corner  a  number  of  turkeys,  their 
red  rattles  almost  blue  with  cold,  are  trying  to  find  a  warm  spot  for 
their  feet.  The  chickens  alone,  headed  by  two  fatherly  roosters,  walk 
about  in  their  dainty  way,  and  look  for  food,  without  a  thought  of  cold. 
As  they  gather  at  the  call  of  the  senior  rooster  to  inspect  a  choice 
tidbit,  a  "cotton-tail,"  on  his  way  home  from  a  foraging  expedition, 
dashes  through  the  group,  causing  a  great  uproar.  In  the  distance 
the  guineas  are  repeating  their  sharp  "pot  rack,  pot  rack."  A  cloud 
of  sparrows  settle  around  a  pail  of  meal,  and  fight  and  chatter  inces- 
santly.  The  windmill  gives  a  chserful  squeak,  as  a  mischievous  Decem- 
ber breeze  rattles  it.  Even  the  snow  sparkles;  and  in  the  barn-yard 
the  winter  morning  is  a  time  of  good  cheer. — Helen  M.  Jewell. 


THE     OLD     ROAD. 

The  old  road  from  our  town  to  the  village  of  Geneva  has  a  char- 
acter  so  entirely  its  own  that  those  who  travel  it  often  have  come  to 
regard  it  as  almost  human.  As  it  leaves  the  town,  it  starts  bravely 
enough  on  its  nine-mile  journey,  but  it  cannot  resist  the  temptation  to 
loiter  along  Sweet-water  Creek  to  enjoy  the  beauty  and  freshness  by 
its  tinkling  waters.  And  no  wonder  that  it  idles  here,  for,  leaving  the 
wood,  it  slips  out  over  glistening  sands,  where  the  fierce  sun  beats 
upon  it  all  day  long.  At  this  point  there  are  no  bends,  for  the  old 
road  seems  to  dislike  this  part  of  its  course.  Then  it  enters  a  forest  of 
lofty  pines,  which  sing  and  murmur  above  it.  It  lingers  in  this  quiet 
spot,  wandering  about  aimlessly  in  its  efforts  to  make  its  stay  long. 
Suddenly  the  country  changes,  and  the  road  creeps  into  a  broad  savan- 
nah. When  the  wind  blows,  it  is  almost  impossible  to  see  the  track, 
for  the  grass  bends  so  low  as  almost  to  conceal  it.  Here  it  seems  to 
slink  along  like  some  huge  serpent  winding  its  way  through  the  green 
expanse.  Then  it  plunges  into  a  deep  hollow,  where  the  roadway  is 
lined  with  sedges  and  modest  flowers.  Another  sandy  strip  follows, 
and  here  the  road  struggles  up  a  long  hill  to  a  settlement.  Tiny  coi 
tages  line  the  way,  and  a  comfortable  little  tavern  stands  at  the  turn. 
Here  the  road  shows  its  social  tendencies,  for  it  makes  a  wide  circuit 
to  take  in  two  little  houses  standing  far  from  the  rest.  Beyond  this 
point  the  way  is  rocky,  and  the  road  does  not  tarry  here,  but  climbs  an 
abrupt  slope  to  a  thick  wood.     At  last  it  nears  the  village  of  Geneva. 


It  comes  down  the  little  hill  by  jerks,  as  if  afraid  of  losing  its  footing 
and  tumbling  headlong.  Finally  it  reaches  the  bottom,  and  turns  at 
once  to  the  store.  There  it  widens  as  if  it  had  stopped  to  plan  its 
future  route.  Then  it  starts  briskly  through  the  village.  Past  rose- 
covered  cottages,  past  the  quiet  meeting-house,  by  the  lonely  graveyard, 
through  a  grove  of  beeches,  to  the  schoolhouse,  on  it  goes.  Finally  it 
stops  short  before  the  only  painted  house  in  the  village,  evidently  too 
astonished  to  go  further.  This  big,  white  mansion  is  planted  squarely 
in  its  path,  and  it  meekly  divides,  and  starts  off  in  two  directions. 
As  we  cannot  follow  both  branches  at  once,  we  lose  interest  in  the  old 
road,  and  leave  it  to  wander  where  it  will. — Helen  M.  Jewell. 


MARCH. 


March,  that  boisterous  fellow,  has  come  again.  Like  most  young- 
sters of  his  age  he  is  always  troublesome  to  those  upon  whom  he  inflicts 
himself.  He  comes  in  at  an  open  door  with  a  bang;  and,  if  any  protest 
is  made,  he  whirls  around  petulantly,  and  ends  by  flying  outdoors 
again,  carrying  with  him  any  number  of  papers.  He  delights  to  hide 
in  dark  corners  and  then  to  spring  out  with  a  scream  upon  the 
passers.  He  whistles  and  howls  around  buildings  and  up  chimneys 
with  a  doleful  moan.  When  you  meet  him  on  the  street,  he  at  once 
engages  in  a  friendly  tussle;  but,  like  most  children,  he  does  not  know 
when  you  have  had  enough,  and  completely  exhausts  you  with  his 
rough  play.  There  is  nothing  that  his  busy  fingers  cannot  use  in 
making  noises, — in  fact,  his  strongest  characteristic  is  noisiness.  Even 
in  the  dead  of  night  he  contrives  to  rattle  shutters,  squeak  hinges,  and 
shake  windows  in  a  persistent  fashion.  He  appears  some  morning, 
perhaps,  wearing  the  saintly  air  of  the  habitually  mischievous  Sunday 
school  boy.  His  rough  manners  are  all  subdued  and  his  face  is  lighted 
with  a  seraphic  smile.  Do  not  be  deceived;  this  pleasing  outward 
appearance  is  only  a  veil  for  dark  purposes.  Not  many  hours  will 
pass  before  his  old  nature,  all  the  more  vigorous  for  this  short  time 
of  relaxation,  will  begin  to  show  itself,  and  March  will  be  at  his  old 
tricks.  No  discipline,  no  complaint,  has  any  effect;  and  we  must  con- 
tent ourselves  by  remembering,  while  he  is  our  visitor,  that  he  is 
only  a  boy,  and  so  excuse  his  folly. — Helen  M.  Jewell. 


THE   PICTURE  OF  A  FAMILY. 

They  were  opposite  us  in  the  crowded  car,  evidently  the  whole 
family  together,  and  we  instinctively  found  ourselves  studying  their 
faces.  The  father  sat  at  one  end  of  the  group,  and  his  dress  showed 
him  to  be  a  working  man.  The  sleeves  of  his  faded  coat  were  worn 
around  his  hands  into  a  fringe  of  dirty  threads,  and  his  soiled  collar 
was  turned  up  to  hide  the  ragged  velvet  and  his  bare  neck.     His  head 


was   bent,   yet    we   could  see  his  mouth   fixed   in   a   stolid   expression. 
Beside  him  was  his  older  son,  a  perfect  likeness  of  his  father.      His 
shoulders   were   drawn    forward   seemingly   to  allow    his  tightly-fitting 
coat  to  button  across  his  well-developed  chest.     Although  he  was  evi- 
dently uncomfortable,  he  did  not  unfasten  the  buttons,  a  fact  sugges- 
tive of  the  condition  of  his  wardrobe.     Next  to  him  sat  his  mother, 
a  nervous,  careworn  woman,  on  whose  young  face  there  wrere  far  too 
many  wrinkles.     Her  eyes  were  heavy  and  sad,  and  below  them  were 
dark  circles.     Her  plush  wrap  was  made  in  a  style  worn  years  ago, 
and  might  have  been  among  her  wedding  gifts.     Her  hat  was  trimmed 
with  a  confusion   of   plumes,   chicken   feathers,   and   scraps   of  velvet 
and  silk,  and  was  stamped  as  the  work  of  an  amateur.     Her  arm  was 
around    a   wriggling,   twisting  youngster   about  three   years   old.     He 
wore  clothes  which  were  apparently  his  inheritance  from  former  gener- 
ations, but  his  face   was  rosy,  and  his  eyes  were  bright.     His  little 
sister  was  trying  to  hold  him  on  the  slippery  seat,  but  her  efforts  were 
useless,  for  he  took  delight  in  sliding  off  and  in  making  her  help  him 
back  again.     Her  skill  in  caring  for  him  showed   that  she  had  been 
well  trained,  young  though  she  was,  in  the  art  of  baby-tending.     Com- 
pleting the  group  was  a  queer  little  old  woman.     If  she  had  not  wrorn 
a  short  dress  and  braided  her  hair  down  her  back,  she  might  have 
been  mistaken  for  the  grandmother.    But  no,  she  was  the  oldest  child, 
who  had  been  compelled,  with  her  father  and  mother,  to  feel  the  cares 
and  disappointments  of  life  to  a  marked  degree.    There  was  no  cheery 
smile  on  her  face,  no  happy  expression   in  her  eyes.     She  carried  a 
heavy  bundle,  but  the  burden  on  her  heart  weighed  her  down  far  more. 
There  they  sat,  and  not  one  spoke  a  word.     What  had  they  to  say? 
Only  the  baby  saw  something  entertaining  in  this  weary  world,  and 
we   could  not  help  wondering  how  soon  his   sweet   little   face  would 
become  hard  and  sullen.     Finally  they  left  the  car,  walking  like  old, 
old  people,  whose  lives  had  been  dull  and  dismal.    A  sad  picture?    Yes, 
and  yet  how  often  it  is  reproduced! — Helen  M.  Jewell. 


THAT     FISH. 


To  a  casual  observer  he  might  have  seemed  innocent  enough,  as  he 
lay  quietly  on  the  smooth  pine  board  at  the  beginning  of  the  laboratory 
period,  but  from  the  first  he  seemed  to  me  peculiar.  To  begin  with, 
he  had  a  wicked  eye  and  a  hard  mouth.  Say  what  you  will  about  that 
fish's  being  dead,  I  knew  that  his  lifeless  form  was  possessed  by  some 
demon,  or  that  his  own  spirit  was  hovering  near.  In  the  first  place, 
his  nose  had  an  ugly  curve,  a  scornful  ripple,  if  you  will.  Some  one 
might  say  that  it  had  been  jammed  into  that  shape,  but  no  mere 
crowding  could  have  produced  the  effect  due  to  those  supercilious 
wrinkles.  They  seemed  to  say,  "Pin  me  down,  if  you  will;  torture  me, 
if  you  must;    I  shall  never,  never  yield  to  your  control."     On  further 

89 


investigation,  his  mouth  was  found  to  be  not  only  hard  but  cold.  It 
was  firmly  shut,  and  he  could  not  be  induced  to  open  it.  His  eyes 
had  a  fixed  stare,  but  no  one  could  catch  a  glance  from  them.  They 
must  have  seen  everything,  however,  for,  when  he  was  moved,  he  knew 
at  what  moment  he  would  cause  the  most  trouble  by  slipping.  There 
was  no  part  of  his  body  that  did  not  indicate  an  obstinate  and  unyield- 
ing disposition.  His  fins  stuck  out  at  an  obstinate  angle,  each  at  cross- 
purpones  with  its  neighbor.  His  tail  was  stiffened  into  an  awkward 
position,  showing  that  he  had  died  fighting. 

It  would  be  supposed  that,  after  the  difficulties  of  stubborn  fins, 
twisted  tail,  and  set  mouth  had  been  overcome,  all  else  would  be  easy. 
But,  no,  when  his  internal  anatomy  was  exposed,  every  part  was  out  of 
proportion.  As  might  be  expected,  he  had  very  little  heart.  His 
stomach  was  so  large  that  it  left  little  room  for  any  other  organ.  He 
had  a  great  deal  of  spleen,  however,  and  his  nerve  and  backbone  were 
well  developed.  As  I  made  these  interesting  but  disappo'nting  dis- 
coveries one  after  another,  that  wicked  fish  smiled  maliciously,  and 
seemed  to  wink  one  eye,  as  if  to  say,  "I  told  you  that  I  would  win  in 
the  end."  Every  time  that  he  came  before  my  mind,  I  felt  as  one 
worsted  by  an  inferior.  When  one  morning  I  sought  him  and  found 
him  not,  I  had  a  sense  of  freedom,  and  I  hoped  that  my  eyes  might 
never  see  his  l!ke  again.- — Helen  M.  Jewell. 


THE  SHEEP  OP  THE  SKY. 

Did  you  ever,  my  lass  with  the  sweet  brown  eyes, 
Look  away,  'way  up  in  the  deep  blue  skies, 
Where  the   clouds  were  all  floating,  pure,  downy,  white, 
Those  tiny,  soft  clouds  in  the  sky  so  bright? 

Did  you  see  them  come  sailing  along  all  day, 
Each  pushing  and  crowding  the  rest  on  their  way, 
Till  the  sun  couldn't  find  any  place  to  see 
Through  those  white,  little  clouds,  as  soft  as  could  be? 

Then  listen,  I'll  tell  you  a  story  true 
Of  those  white,  little  clouds  in  the  sky  so  blue; 
For  the  clouds  that  we  see  come  a-sailing  by 
Are  only  the  sheep  and  the  lambs  of  the  sky. 

They  are  hurrying  home  to  the  sheepfold  warm, 
Away  from  the  wrath  of  the  coming  storm, 
For,  whenever  the  sheep  and  the  lambs  go  past, 
A  storm  cloud  will  follow  them  sure  and  fast. 

And  their  shepherd,  the  wind,  is  tending  them  well, 
As,  if  you  listen,  you'll  hear  me  tell. 


Driving  them  home  from  the  fields  of  blue, 
Home  from  the  meadows  of  daisies,  too. 

Home  to  the  sheepfold  he  brings  them  back. 
From  the  reach  of  the  storm-clouds  fierce  and  black. 
And  so  you   may  see  them   pass  all   day; 
Now  quickly,  now  fast  they  go  on  their  way. 

Now.  listen,  my  lass  with  the  eyes  of  brown. 
When  the  fleecy  white  clouds  come  a-floating  down. 
Come  a-drifting  down  the  lanes  of  blue, 
They  give  a  warning  to  me  and  you. 

For  whenever  the  tiny,  soft  clouds  so  white 
Go  scurrying  out  of  the  sky  so  bright, 
Then  a  storm-cloud  is  coming,  as  you  may  know. 
Coming  at  length  whether  fast  or  slow. 

And  the  place  for  the  lambs  and  the  children,  too, 

Whether  here  on  the  earth,  or  in  heaven  so  blue, 

Is  at  home  under  shelter  strong  and  warm, 

Protected  safe  from  the  coming  storm.— Helen  M.  Jewell. 


A  SECRET. 

Robin  Red  Breast  found  it  out  first,  and  told  it  in  confidence,  for 
he  couldn't  keep  it  all  to  himself,  to  his  gossiping  neighbor,  the  crow. 
Of  course,  that  really  settled  the  matter,  as  far  as  keeping  it  a  secret 
was  concerned.  All  the  world  might  as  well  know  it  now  as  at  any 
other  time.  For  the  Crow  just  dropped  a  hint  to  a  Sparrow,  such  a 
modest  little  creature  that  it  would  never  tell  a  soul.  But  he  forgot 
that  "a  friend's  friend  hath  a  friend,"  or  even  more,  and  so  in  a  very 
few  minutes  all  the  Sparrow  family  knew  Robin's  secret.  One  of  them 
even  dared  to  tell  him,  the  saucy  thing,  as  though  he  hadn't  found  it 
out  first.  Then  all  the  birds  came  flocking  to  see,  and,  after  chatter- 
ing for  a  few  minutes,  flew  away,  and  burst  out  singing.  The  South 
Wind,  mischievous  fellow,  heard  it  next,  and  then  it  went  flying  every- 
where, for  he  whispered  it  to  every  living  thing.  But  Robin,  no  longer 
proud  possessor  of  a  secret,  nevertheless  sat  on  his  favorite  limb  of 
the  old  oak  tree  and  almost  burst  his  throat  with  a  rush  of  song,  for 
wasn't  the  first  crocus  up  and  open  to-day? — Helen  M.  Jewell. 


THE   TEAKETTLE'S   SONG. 

It  had  been  an  unpleasant  day  from  beginning  to  end.  Baby  was 
cross,  Cook  had  burned  her  fingers,  Ted  and  Bess  were  full  of  mischief, 
and  Mother  was  tired.     Now  it  was  evening;   and.  when  Father  came 

91 


home,  he  would  miss  his  usual  pleasant  greeting  from  four  happy  faces. 
The  family  were,  with  the  exception  of  Father,  in  the  kitchen,  that 
big,  cheery  room  where  they  always  gathered  on  stormy  nights.  Cook 
filled  the  teakettle,  and  sat  it  on  the  front  part  of  the  stove.  Almost 
at  once  it  began  to  sing.  Ted  and  Bess,  who  were  teasing  the  cat,  came 
up  close  to  hear  the  sound,  and  Baby  forgot  to  fret.  The  Kettle  began 
like  some  old  man  who  is  trying  to  recall  a  song  of  his  youth.  A  few 
fitful  sputters  from  its  depths,  and  it  was  ready.  A  high  note  first  to 
test  its  vocal  powers,  then  it  was  fairly  started.  The  lid  vainly  tried  to 
keep  time  by  bouncing  wildly  up  and  down.  Now  on  one  side,  now 
on  the  other  it  danced,  but  always  hopelessly  behind  the  kettle,  for  the 
music  went  on  without  a  break.  What  a  merry  bubbling  song  it  was! 
First  a  sound  like  a  murmuring  brook,  then  a  whole  hive  of  bees 
droned  lazily,  then  the  wind  whispered  through  the  trees,  and  finally 
it  became  a  contented  purr.  The  cheerfulness  was  infectious.  Ted 
and  Bess  began  to  dance  in  time  with  the  jolly  lid.  Baby  sang  a  song 
as  sweet  as  that  of  the  kettle.  Cook  forgot  her  burned  fingers,  and, 
as  she  prepared  supper,  hummed  "Rest  for  the  weary."  Mother's  face 
lost  its  troubled  look;  and  a  happier  picture  than  was  to  be  seen  in 
that  kitchen  would  have  been  hard  to  find.  At  least,  Father  thought  so, 
as  he  stood  by  the  stove  warming  his  hands  in  the  steam  from  the 
kettle,  and  laughed  to  see  the  clumsy  antics  of  the  lid.  But  no  one 
ever  gave  the  kettle  credit  for  working  the  transformation. — Helen  M. 
Jewell. 


THE     TREE'S    CHILDREN. 

As  long  as  they  were  young,  the  leaves  were  content  to  stay  at 
home  with  their  mother;  but,  when  they  grew  old  enough  to  laugh 
familiarly  with  the  sunbeams,  their  desire  to  be  independent  waxed 
strong.  Poor,  deluded  leaves,  they  little  realized  what  a  cold,  bare 
place  the  world  would  be  without  their  mother's  arms  around  them. 
At  last  nearly  all  their  neighbors  left  them,  and  they  became  impatient 
to  follow.  So  every  morning  a  clamor  arose  over  the  question  of  going 
away  from  home,  but  the  old  tree's  only  answer  was,  "Not  now.  Wait 
?  t  ]'•>'."  In  the  night  they  heard  their  mother  tossing  her  arms  and 
moaniEg,  as  she  thought  of  the  time  when  she  would  be  alone.  The 
leaves,  however,  thought  such  behavior  foolish,  and,  green  little  crea- 
tures as  they  were,  felt  sure  that  they  knew  best.  Finally  a  day  came 
when  their  mother  told  them  that,  as  soon  as  their  new  dresses  were 
ready,  they  might  go.  How  they  all  danced  with  glee  when  Mr.  Frost 
at  length  brought  them  their  beautiful  clothes!  Each  vain  little  leaf 
tossed  its  saucy  head,  and  dreamed  of  freedom.  Soon  their  mother 
sent  them  away,  and  off  they  flew.  The  old  home  looked  desolate,  but 
none  of  the  leaves  turned  back  to  see.  The  mother  watched  until  the 
last  had  disappeared  over  a  neighboring  hill.  They  had  a  merry  race 
down,  and,  when  they  reached  the  bottom,  stopped  to  talk  over  their 

92 


plans.  Just  then  the  autumn  wind  played  a  lively  march,  and  they  all 
ran  nimhly  after.  Whether  he  led  them  into  a  hillside,  a  second  Pied 
Piper,  no  one  ever  knew,  for  not  a  leaf  came  back.  Poor,  foolish  little 
leaves! — Helen   M.  Jewell. 


A    SUMMER    EVENING. 

It  was  one  of  those  sultry  July  evenings  when  in  the  coolest  spot 
no  relief  can  be  found,  when  the  air  throbs  with  heat,  when  the  wind 
is  hot  and  stifling.  On  such  an  evening  before  a  saloon  on  North  Hai- 
sted  Street  a  crowd  of  weary  people  vainly  sought  relief  from  the 
oppressiveness  of  the  day.  Whether  the  fact  that  a  stunted  oak  tree, 
struggling  for  a  bare  existence  in  that  unfavorable  place,  cast  its  light 
shade  there,  whether  the  thought  that  they  might  refresh  themsei 
with  cooling  draughts  from  the  saloon,  or  whether  the  delusion  that 
the  hot  wind  sweeping  down  the  street  might  relieve  their  discomfort, 
influenced  them  in  their  choice  of  a  situation,  it  would  be  hard  to  say. 
At  all  events,  there  they  were  in  the  most  pleasant  spot  in  the  neigh- 
borhood. The  street  was  muddy  with  water  from  a  passing  sprinkler, 
and  a  number  of  dirty,  ragged  children  were  splashing  after  it  in  the 
gutter,  trying  to  cool  their  blistered  feet.  From  the  rickety  walk  in 
front  of  the  saloon  rose  a  cloud  of  oppressive  steam,  for  the  bartender 
was  dashing  water  over  the  rotten  boards.  Near  the  open  door  beside 
a  sickly  oleander  in  a  green  tub  sat  half  a  dozen  men,  endeavoring 
to  forget  the  heat  in  their  enjoyment  of  mugs  of  foaming  beer.  Their 
chairs  were  tilted  back,  and  their  arms  and  chests  were  bare,  as  they 
fanned  themselves  with  their  broad-brimmed  hats.  A  crowd  of  young 
fellows  sat  along  the  edge  of  the  sidewralk,  laughing  loudly  at  the 
efforts  of  a  little  boy  to  take  a  swallow  of  whisky  without  making  a 
wry  face.  Two  women  in  faded  calico  wrappers  were  pushing  baby 
carriages  up  and  down  through  the  crowd.  The  poor  little  children 
cried  fretfully,  but  their  mothers  were  so  weary  that  they  scarcely 
noticed  the  complaints.  A  child  of  ten  was  carrying  a  tiny  bundle  in 
a  faded  shawl,  and  from  the  pitiful  moans  within  the  wrappings  it 
seemed  to  be  a  baby.  Children  of  all  ages  sat  among  the  men,  listening 
to  their  vulgar  conversation  and  receiving  their  sole  education.  No 
one  paid  the  least  attention  to  a  drunken  brawl  across  the  street,  to 
the  arrival  of  the  patrol,  or  to  the  arrest  of  the  participants.  It  was 
a  daily,  hourly,  occurrence  with  them.  A  family  dispute,  the  sounds 
of  which  came  from  an  open  window,  did  not  excite  more  than  the 
passing  remark  that  "Pat  and  Biddy  was  at  it  again."  As  night  settled 
down  with  no  prospect  of  rain,  the  weary,  discouraged  people  went  to 
their  wretched  homes — to  sleep? — to  toss  and  to  suffer  through  another 
long  and  dreadful  night. — Helen  M.  Jewell. 


93 


THE  SECRETS  OF  THE  WIND. 

The  wind  is  sighing  through  the  trees; 
They  tell  their  secrets  to  the  breeze 

In  shy,  confiding  tones. 
The  wind  comes  murmuring  in  my  ear, 
And  tells  the  secrets  low  and  clear, 

The  secrets  of  the  leaves. 

It  blows  above  the  violet, 

And  touches  soft  its  petals  wet, 

And  hears  its  simple  tale. 
It  brings  to  me  in  fragrance  sweet 
That  message  from  my  very  feet, 

For  me  alone  to  hear. 

It  rocks  the  ripples  into  rest, 

It  soothes  the  birdling  on  its  nest, 

And  comes  to  tell  me  all. 
It  tells  each  secret  natture  knows, 
And  then  on  other  errands  goes, 

To  learn  her  lessons  sweet. 

And  as  for  me,  I  ponder  long 
On  secrets  told  by  nature's  song, 

By  idle,  roving  winds.  • 
And  who  will  listen,  too,  may  hear; 
The  wind, — it  seeks  a  willing  ear 

To  trust  its  secrets  to. — Helen  M.  Jewell. 


WHEN  SPRING  RETURNS. 

When  spring  returns,   our  hearts  are  glad  and  gay; 
Although  we  find  wide  puddles  in  our  way, 
Although  the  mud  is  thick  and  sticks  like  clay, 
Still  we  are  glad  and  gay,  when  spring  returns. 

When  spring  returns,  the  robin's  note  is  heard, 
The  air  is  full  of  songs  of  every  bird, 
And  gentle  maidens'  hearts  are  always  stirred — 
By  thoughts  of  Easter  gowns,  when  spring  returns. 

When  spring  returns,  the  air  is  fresh  and  clear, 
And  sounds  of  merriment  ring  far  and  near, 
Unless  the  fog-horn  with  its  message  drear 
Announces  gloomy  days,   when  spring  returns. 

When  spring  returns,  the  poet's  heart  is  glad, 
And  swells  with  fancies  sometimes  good — or  bad, — 
94 


And  many  a  burdened  editor  is  sad 

To  read  the  verses  wild,  when  spring  returns. 

When  spring  returns,  the  gentle  zephyrs  blow 
And  murmur  through  the  trees  a  message  low, 
Or,  bent  on  errands  fierce  and  furious,  go 
To  devastate  the  land,  when  spring  returns. 

And  yet  when  spring  returns  our  hearts  are  gay; 
For  o'er  the  earth  the  sunshine  holds  its  sway, 
And  into  gloomy  hearts  sends  many  a  ray 

To  brighten  cheerless  lives,  when  spring  returns. 

— Helen  M.  Jewell. 

SPRING'S    LULLABY. 

Rock,  little  buds,  in  your  cradle  so  neat; 

Rock  high  and  low,  rock  high  and  low. 
Sleep,  while  the  winds  croon  a  lullaby  sweet. 

Swing  fast  and  slow,  swing  fast  and  slow. 
"Rock-a-by,"  soft  sings  the  wind  in  the  tree, 
"Rock-a-by,"  twitters  the  robin  to  thee. 

Hush,  never  fear;  hush,  never  fear. 

Soft  winds  are  blowing;  springtime  is  near. 

Sleep,  tiny  buds,  in  your  snug  little  nest; 

Sleep  while  you  may,  sleep  while  you  may. 
Wrapped  close  and  warm,  never  fear,  only  rest. 

"Sleep,"  breezes  say,  "Sleep,"  breezes  say. 
Lullaby,  lullaby,  why  should  you  wake? 
Melodies  sweet  the  south  breezes  will  make. 

Hush,  never  fear;    hush,  never  fear. 

Springtime  is  coming,  summer  is  near. 

Wake,  little  buds,  on  the  appletree  high; 

Wake  from  your  sleep,  wake  from  your  sleep. 
Springtime  is  here,  and  the  summer  is  nigh. 

Forth  shyly  peep,  forth  shyly  peep. 
Wake,  for  the  birds  sing  a  message  to  you; 
Wake,  for  there's  plenty  of  work  now  to  do. 

Wake,  never  fear;   wake,  never  fear. 

Springtime  is  passing,  summer  is  here. 

— Helen  M.  Jewell. 


AN  UNEXPECTED  TURN. 

He  loved  her.  He  had  loved  her  when  first  he  met  her  in  college, 
and  it  had  grown  as  their  acquaintance  ripened.  He  was  a  graduate 
and  would  enter  his  chosen  profession  soon.     It  was  vacation  now,  and 

9a 


he  was  taking  a  bicycle  trip  to  visit  at  her  home,  which  was  in  another 
State.  As  he  rode  along,  he  thought  of  the  jolly  times  gone  by.  Ah, 
those  were  happy  days — and  evenings.  He  recalled  the  many  strolls 
along  the  lake  shore  in  the  bright  moonlight.  How  beautiful  and 
tender  she  seemed  at  such  times! 

Did  she  love  him?  He  could  not  help  believing  that  she  did.  He 
had  squeezed  her  hand  once,  and  she  had  not  objected.  She  had 
invariably  accepted  his  offers  to  go  walking  or  to  have  an  ice-cream 
soda.  And  now  he  was  on  his  way  to  visit  her.  How  surprised  and 
delighted  she  would  be!  In  a  short  half-hour  he  would  see  her,  and 
once  more  rejoice  at  her  beauty.  Her  father  was  very  wealthy,  too. 
Ah  well,  that  was  nothing  against  her. 

In  imagination  he  saw  himself  folding  her  in'  his  manly  arms  and 
receiving  the  parental  blessing.  Yes,  he  would  settle  it  all  during  this 
visit.  Of  course  she  might  have  to  wait  a  few  years  before  they  could 
marry,  for  he  must  work  up  a  practice  first,  but  if  she  was  in  a  hurry, 
why,  her  father  had  money,  and — and, — well,  of  course,  if  he  offered 
it,  they  certainly  could  not  afford  to  offend  him  by  a  refusal. 

His  heart  beat  high  as  he  drew  near  her  home.  He  chuckled  when 
he  thought  of  her  delight.  As  he  rode  up  the  beautiful  driveway,  he 
caught  a  glimpse  of  a  hammock  with  its  occupant,  among  a  grove  of 
trees.  One  glance  was  enough.  He  would  recognize  her  among  a 
thousand.  On  he  rode,  his  eyes  bright  with  anticipated  pleasure.  He 
started  with  annoyance,  however,  when  he  drew  nearer,  to  find  that 
she  was  not  alone.  The  rubber  tires  enabled  him  to  approach  noise- 
lessly, and  so  he  was  able  to  obtain  a  full  front-view  without  being 
noticed.  A  man  was  with  her.  A  sleeve  of  a  red  golf-coat  was  around 
the  waist  about  which  he  had  so  often  longed  but  never  dared  to 
put  his  arm.  Her  head  reclined  on  his  shoulder,  while  the  hand  of 
his  free  arm  was  gently  patting  her  cheek. 

A  muffled  oath,  the  creaking  of  a  chain  at  high  tension,  and  the 
rapid  whirr  of  wheels  aroused  the  pair  from  their  reverie  and  she 
asked,  "Who  is  that  man  who  is  riding  so  furiously  down  the  road?" — 
Alton  P.  Johnson. 


ANOTHER    SCANDAL. 

For  the  last  week  students  going  to  and  from  their,  classes  by 
was  of  University  Place,  have  had  their  ideals  shattered  and  their 
blind  confidence  rudely  shaken.  Painted  prominently  on  the  fence 
belonging  to  a  man  whom  all  delight  to  honor  were  the  words, 
"Schlitz  Beer.  Family  Entrance."  Has  it  come  to  this?  Is  there 
no  one  we  can  trust?  For  years  the  owner  of  that  fence,  who  is  a 
man  widely  known  in  university  circles  and  who  is  a  member  of 
our  own  faculty,  has  held  the  implicit  trust  of  both  students  and 
community.  No  one  ever  dreamed  of  accusing  him  of  that  for  which 
he  now  voluntarily  stands.     He  has  always  been  regarded  as  a  tem- 

96 


perate,  Law-abiding  citizen,  but  now  he  openly  defies  the  law,  and 
encourages  others  to  do  likewise. 

Think  of  the  grief  of  the  trusting  parents  who  send  their  boys 
here,  hoping  to  see  them  return  home,  educated  and  moral  men, 
and  who,  on  reading  the  newspapers,  find  that  the  head  of  the  uni- 
versity not  only  sanctions  the  use  of  intoxicants,  but  actually  encour- 
ages it  by  offering  beer  for  sale,  urging  the  special  inducement  of  a 
"family  entrance"?  We  can  now  understand  the  full  significance  of 
that  high  fence  which  we  assumed  was  to  conceal  a  vegetable  garden. 

But  perhaps  we  are  wrong.  The  doctor  may  have  ideas  more 
advanced  than  we,  with  our  limited  learning,  can  appreciate.  What 
we,  in  our  ignorance,  condemn,  he,  by  reason  of  his  greater  knowledge, 
may  know  to  be  a  blessing  to  mankind. 

There  are  two  explanations  afloat  which  promise  to  solve  the 
problem.  One  is  that  all  truly  great  men  give  evidence  of  some  form  of 
insanity,  and  that  this  nervous  mental-disorder  is  shown  by  peculiar 
conduct.  Now,  that  the  doctor  is  great,  none  dare  deny,  so  why 
should  we  be  surprised  at  this  added  proof  of  his  greatness? 

But  another  and  broader  excuse  for  the  sign  is  urged.  While  the 
heads  of  other  universities  have  bought  up  newspapers,  waylaid  mil- 
lionaires, publicly  taken  interest  in  Olympian  games,  interviewed  the 
President,  and  in  many  ways  sought  to  direct  public  attention  to  their 
respective  institutions,  their  schemes  have  been  purely  experimental, 
and  have  not  been  very  successful.  Not  so  with  the  head  of  the  North- 
western University.  With  shrewdness  not  to  be  surpassed,  he  has 
taken  the  only  tried  and  reliable  method  of  bringing  fame  to  the 
institution  he  represents.  "Schlitz  Beer"  has  made  Milwaukee  famous; 
it  will  do  as  much  for  us.  Hereafter,  when  the  name  of  Northwestern 
has  become  a  household  word,  when  our  Alma  Mater  has  reached  the 
acme  of  perfection  as  an  institution  of  learning,  then,  high  in  an 
honored  spot  where  reverent  eyes  may  read  and  appreciate,  should 
be  hung  the  motto,  "SCHLITZ,  THE  BEER  THAT  MADE  NORTH- 
WESTERN FAMOUS."— Alton  P.  Johnson. 


THAT    DOG. 


I  met  him  on  a  side  street,  just  as  I  was  crossing  the  alley.  He 
was  thin,  and  he  was  yellow.  You  have  seen  his  picture  hundreds  of 
times,  in  the  comic  papers.  With  every  rib  showing  prominently,  tail 
despondently  curled  between  his  shaking  legs,  he  presented  a  sorry 
picture.  He  huddled  close  to  the  fence  as  if  conscious  of  his  utter 
worthlessness  and  as  if  he  were  trying  to  become  merely  a  part  of 
the  scenery. 

And  yet  the  drooping  head  betrayed  a  slight  interest  in  the  sur- 
roundings, for  he  gazed  at  me,  somewhat  doubtfully,  to  be  sure, 
with   his  large,   mournful  eyes,  as   if  to  learn  my  intentions.     Then, 

97 


as  if  to  show  that  he  still  retained  a  remnant  of  his  youthful  trust  in 
mankind,  he  feebly  wagged  his  slightly  truncated  tail.  He  seemed  to 
grin  at  me  so  as  to  open  the  way  for  any  advances  I  might  wish  to 
make  and  also  to  show  that,  so  far  as  he  was  concerned,  there  were 
no  hostile  intentions. 

Inspired  by  pity  for  the  forlorn  little  fellow,  I  spoke  kind  words 
of  encouragement  to  him,  dwelling  particularly  on  his  good  character 
as  a  dog  and  ascribing  to  him  every  mark  of  virtue.  His  lonely  heart 
warmed  under  the  praise,  and  my  open  admiration  of  him  seemed 
to  strike  a  responsive  chord,  for  he  immediately  gave  evidence  of 
the  warmest  regard  for  me.  His  eyes  seemed  actually  to  laugh  with 
joy  as  he  squirmed  and  fawned  at  my  feet,  while  his  tail  wagged 
furiously  and  seemed  to  shake  his  entire  body.  At  last  he  had  found 
his  affinity!  He  knew  it!  No  little  bird  or  whispering  breeze  told 
him  of  it,  but  deep  down  in  his  now  wildly  agitated  heart,  he  knew  it. 

Feeling  that  I  had  renewed  hope  in  a  despairing  mind  I  started 
on  my  way.  But  no,  I  was  wrong.  I  should  have  said,  we  started  on 
our  way,  for  the  dog  went  with  me.  What?  Did  I  think  that  friend- 
ships could  be  made  and  broken  thus  lightly?  If  I  did,  the  dog 
had  other  and  more  pronounced  views.  Hereafter  we  were  to  be 
comrades.  I  had  been  formally  adopted.  I  realized  my  mistake,  but 
knowing  the  utter  hopelessness  of  any  attempt  to  dissolve  the  rela- 
tionship, I  sighed  as  we  went  on  our  way,  one  of  us  rejoicing  and  the 
other, — resigned. — Alton  F.  Johnson. 


A  SUMMER  EVENING  IN  THE  CITY,  AS  SEEN  FROM  OUR  BACK 

PORCH. 

It  is  an  ordinary  evening  in  summer.  The  heat  of  the  day  has 
passed,  making  the  cooling  breeze  doubly  welcome.  The  very  earth 
seems  to  breathe  a  sigh  of  relief.  The  moon  rises  majestically  from 
behind  yonder  brewery,  and  sheds  a  mellow  light  over  all  the  back 
yards  and  sheds.  The  tall  brick  chimney,  which  seems  to  rise  and 
stretch  heavenward,  looms  up  ghostlike  in  the  night,  and  adds  an 
air  of  solemnity  to  the  scene. 

All  is  still  save  the  low  gurgle  of  water,  as  it  ripples  out  of 
the  hose  into  the  cement-barrel  in  the  yard  below.  Soon  a  cable-car 
winds  its  way  around  a  curve,  and  then  goes  clattering  off  into  the 
distance.  The  rhythmic  beating  of  a  horse's  hoofs,  combined  with 
the  muffled  bumps  of  a  wagon,  comes  up  from  the  alley-way.  And 
faint,  from  farther  distance  borne,  comes  the  sound  of  a  German  band 
at  work  before  the  corner  saloon. 

To  the  right,  the  Lutheran  church  is  clearly  outlined  in  the 
moonlight,  which  now  comes  in  fitful  beams  through  the  smoke  from 
a  chimney,  close  at  hand.  To  the  left  stands  the  stable  which  belongs 
to  our  neighbor.     We  are  unconsciously  drawn  closer  to  nature  as  we 

<*8 


hear  the  soft  stamping  of  the  horses,  and  have  other  attending  evi- 
dences of  a  barn  wafted  up  to  ns. 

Nothing  disturbs  the  sense  of  absolute  rest  which  pervades  the 
scene,  save  the  shrill  cry  of  a  crowd  of  small  boys  who  are  playing 
"Run,  sheep,  run,"  near  by.  The  plaintive  cry  of  a  cat  calling  its 
mate  adds  a  note  of  sadness  to  the  situation. 

As  we  lie  in  the  hammock  and  drink  in  the  comparatively  pure 
air,  it  would  seem  as  if  all  the  world  were  at  peace,  were  it  not  for 
the  number  of  people  who  pass  in  and  out  of  the  back  door,  and  who 
must  necessarily  bump  against  the  hammock  in  doing  so. 

On  such  a  night,  one  realizes  that  life  is  well  worth  the  living, 
and  a  feeling  of  thankfulness  springs  up  in  the  heart,  that  there  is 
no  boiler-factory  in  the  neighborhood. — Alton  F.  Johnson. 


TWO   SPEECHES. 

Speech   I. 

! 
Aguinaldo,  the  devoted  rebel  chief,  gathered  his  faithful  followers 

about  him,  and  began:  "Soldiers,  let  the  good  fight  go  on!  Heaven 
will  not  always  refuse  to  hear  our  prayers,  but  will  some  day  grant 
us  a  sign  that  it  is  ever  on  the  side  of  right.  As  for  you,  dear 
friends,  you  who  have  forsaken  all  that  your  country  might  live,  you 
who  have  won  so  many  glorious  foot-races  from  the  hosts  of  the 
invaders,  do  not  now  hesitate  nor  tire  of  the  fight.  The  cause  of  free- 
dom was  ever  a  triumphant  one  when  properly  conducted,  so  do  not 
despair.  As  for  that  traitorous  brood  who  have  yielded  to  the  false 
promises  of  the  foe,  regardless  of  the  lamentations  of  our  afflicted 
people,  words  cannot  describe  my  loathing.  Though  others  forsake 
the  cause,  I  will  continue  the  struggle  for  freedom  as  long  as  breath 
is  in  my  body  and  as  long  as  my  suffering  people  call  me  to  arm  for 
their  defense.  My  heart  swells  with  hope  when  I  see  the  daily  evidence 
of  the  unshaken  resolution  of  my  countrymen,  for  it  foretells  ultimate 
victory.  In  future  years,  our  posterity  will  rise  and  call  us  blessed, 
and  perhaps  we  in  our  graves  shall  hear  and  appreciate.  Will  some 
one  kindly  hand  the  Capitol  to  me,  for  I  hear  the  enemy  approaching, 
and  so  must  prepare  for  the  sprint?" 


Speech  II.     Ten  days  later. 

Aguinaldo,  the  much-pampered  captive  of  the  United  States  Army. 
took  a  sip  of  the  Colonel's  wine,  removed  his  feet  from  the  cushions, 
lighted  a  fresh  cigar,  and  began:  "My  dear  countrymen!  We  have 
fought  well,  but  we  could  not  win  and  we  know  that  we  never  expected 
to  be  victorious.  Let  us  therefore  accept  the  ennobling  and  enlighten- 
ing influences  which  our  kind  friends,  the  Americans,  so  generously 

99 


offer.  The  majority  of  my  fellow  countrymen,  in  fact  all  of  the  really 
desirable  persons,  have  long  ago  united  about  the  glorious,  sovereign 
banner  of  the  United  States.  Ah,  my  friends,  when  I  look  at  that 
starry  emblem  of  freedom  which  belongs  to  my  now  dearly-beloved, 
adopted  country,  I  cannot  repress  a  thrill  of  emotion,  and  my  heart 
swells  with  gratitude  that  I  am  deemed  worthy  to  have  its  protecting 
shade  forever  my  own.  I  cannot  too  severely  condemn  the  actions  of 
the  few  remaining  robbers  and  cut-throats  who,  in  the  name  of  patriot- 
ism, continue  to  annoy  our  benefactors. 

"The  country  has  now  unmistakably  declared  for  peace.  So  be  it. 
There  has  been  enough  blood,  devastation,  and  rebellion.  I  can  no 
longer  resist  the  voice  of  the  people  calling  to  me  to  declare  peace 
and  to  swear  allegiance.  Ah,  what  a  glorious  future  I  see  before  us! 
At  least  for  some  of  us.  The  happiest  moment  of  my  life  will  be 
when  I  see  the  star-spangled  banner  of  freedom  waving  protectingly 
over  my  native  land,  while  the  voices  of  the  people  of  both  nations 
join  in  proclaiming  the  Philippine  Islands  and  the  United  States  one 
and  inseparable,  now  and  forever.  I  thank  you!  There,  Colonel, 
do  I  get  that  check?  And, — ah, — before  you  go,  Colonel,  has — er, — my 
commission  arrived  yet?" — Alton  F.  Johnson. 


A  TRIP  TO  THE  CITY. 

The  farther  away  an  object  is,  the  shorter  do  intervening  distances 
appear.  So  it  is  with  cities.  Forty  miles  from  New  York  City 
seems  merely  a  border  to  it,  when  viewed  from  San  Francisco.  When 
one  is  fifty  or  a  hundred  miles  distant,  a  city  appears  only  as  a  unit, 
a  spot,  a  point,  having  neither  length,  breadth,  nor  thickness.  At 
least  that  is  the  way  our  country  cousin  imagines  it. 

Last  summer  I  lived  in  a  small  town  which  was  four  miles  from 
a  railroad  and  fifty  miles  from  Chicago.  One  day  I  innocently  told  the 
stage-driver  that  I  intended  going  to  the  city  on  the  morrow,  to  make 
a  few  purchases  and  also  a  few  visits.  Ten  minutes  later  Ben  Bailey, 
a  prosperous  farmer,  drove  up  and  after  inquiring  after  my  family, 
wondered  if  it  would  be  too  much  trouble  for  me  to  take  a  plow-point 
to  the  city  with  me.  It  seems  that  the  plow-point  was  defective,  and 
so  must  be  returned  to  the  makers.  I  could  not  refuse  the  request, 
although  the  factory  was  out  of  my  way,  it  being  on  the  West  Side 
while  I  was  going  to  the  North. 

Soon  after,  the  smiling  face  of  the  stage-driver's  wife  came  toward 
the  house.  I  rose  to  meet  her.  After  advising  me  concerning  the 
planting  and  care  of  the  small  flower-gardens  which  deck  our  front 
yard,  she  admitted  that  she  hated  to  ask  me  "to  do  it,"  but  would  I, 
while  in  the  city,  buy  for  her  ten  yards  of  muslin  like  sample,  and 
bring  it  back  in  the  evening?    With  a  sigh  I  answered  that  I  would. 

The  young  man  who  frequently  did  odd  jobs  about  the  house  for 

100 


us  slouched  up,  and  after  wishing  me  a  very  good  day,  wondered  it' 
1  was  going  near  "Barne's  Livery."  I  confessed  perfect  Ignorance 
of  the  situation  of  said  "livery,"  hut,  noticing  his  surprise,  I  said  1 
would  he  glad  to  know.  He  took  that  as  a  promise  evidently,  for 
after  explaining  the  exact  situation  he  told  me  that  his  uncle  worked 
as  driver  for  that  livery-Stable,  and  had  promised  his  nephew  a  similar 
position. 

Before  noon  I  had  promised  enough  to  furnish  work  for  six  men, 
to  say  nothing  of  what  I  had  intended  to  do  for  myself.  To  save  my 
reputation  for  friendliness,  I  hastened  through  my  dinner,  and  hurried 
away  to  the  lake,  to  fish.  The  hoatman  in  charge  was  an  ideal  one. 
His  extreme  quiet,  combined  with  the  fine  fishing,  soon  allowed  me  to 
forget  my  troubles.  As  we  started  for  home  in  the  evening  and  while 
I  was  rejoicing  over  a  good  "catch,"  the  rower,  who  had  not  broken 
the  silence  for  over  the  hour,  drawled,  "Say,  being  as  you're  going  to 
the  city  to-morrow,  maybe  you'll  bring  me  out  a  dozen  plugs  of  'Jolly 
Tar'  and  I'll  pay  you  for  them."     My  troubles  had  returned. 

When  I  reached  home,  I  was  told  that  four  men  had  called  to 
see  me  and,  after  expressing  themselves  as  sorry  that  I  was  not  at 
home,  said  they  would  return  in  the  evening.  Two  women  had  also 
been  there  to  see  me,  and  had  left  messages  saying  that  if  I  met 
certain  of  their  relatives  while  in  town,  to  deliver  best  regards  and 
well-wishes. 

I  felt  ill  almost  immediately.  This  suggested  a  solution  of  the 
difficulty,  and  in  an  hour  the  report  was  circulated  that  I  was  taken 
suddenly  sick  and  could  not  go  to  the  city  on  the  morrow.  I  was 
saved. — Alton  F.  Johnson. 


BABY'S    DREAM. 

Did  you  ever  watch  the  baby, 
When  his  eyes  are  closed  in  sleep, 

When  the  little  hands  lie  idle, 
And  in  quiet  rest  his  feet? 

Have  you  watched  the  tiny  dimples 
As  they  play  at  hide  and  seek, 

While  passing  gleams  of  sunny  smiles 
'Round  his  wee  mouth  slyly  creep? 

Is  he  playing  with  the  fairies, 
In  that  far  off  land  of  dream? 

Do  the  angels  bring  to  baby, 
Visions  that  are  never  seen 

By  the  eyes  grown  dim  in  service, 
By  the  hearts  grown  faint  with  care, 

101 


That  for  one  such  hour  of  slumber, 
Would  give  all  that  life  holds  dear? 

Sleep  on,  darling  little  dreamer, 

In  thy  innocence  and  glee. 
May  the  world-touch  never  blighten 

Thy  sweet,  childlike  purity. 

May  the  angels  ever  guide  thee, 

Through  this  world  of  storm  and  strife, 

'Till  the  last  sweet  sleep  enfolds  thee, 
At  the  other  end  of  life.  —Ethel  Goodrich. 


REVERIES  OF  A  SENIOR. 

It  is  the  night  before  Commencement.  A  soft,  mellow  glow 
shrouds  the  stately  college  halls,  and  blurs  the  sharp  outlines  of  the 
buildings.  The  youthful  moon  dapples  the  ground  beneath  the  trees, 
and  the  lake's  gentle  swash  murmurs  "rest."  To  the  senior  who 
thoughtfully  wanders  over  the  campus  the  night  seems  strangely  quiet. 
Even  the  patient  stars  seem  to  reproach  his  unrest.  As  he  strolls 
toward  the  old,  dingy  walls  that  have  so  long  made  for  him  a  home, 
the  worn  paths  meet  responsively  the  feet  that  have  trod  them  for 
so  many  years.  Happy  years  of  triumphs  and  defeats,  of  broken  hopes 
and  knitted  friendships.  To-night  is  his.  To  morrow  he  must  leave 
the  spot  and  the  friends  he  has  learned  to  love.  To-morroW  he  will 
once  more  join  with  his  class;  there  will  be  music  and  speeches,  there 
will  be  diplomas, — his  diploma,  there  will  be  handshakings  and  fare- 
wells, and  then — !  As  he  loiters  in  the  shadow  of  the  old  oaks  he 
thinks  of  the  dim  life  that  stretches  out,  far  and  wide,  beyond  the 
morrow.  One  piercing  thought  into  the  vast  unknown  strips  pride  of 
all  its  gewgaws,  and  a  humble  senior  shrinks  back  into  the  deeper 
shadows  of  the  oak.  He  turns  for  one  last,  long  look  over  the  campus. 
His  eyes  linger  lovingly  on  the  old  college-hall.  Four  years  have 
changed  the  look  of  it,  for  its  features  have  grown  familiarly  dear. 
Yet  the  full-risen  moon  tips  the  same  spires  that  it  silvered  four  years 
ago.  As  the  saddened  senior  turns  away  his  face,  and  slowly  retraces 
his  steps,  the  same  faithful  clock  strikes  farewell  that  four  year  ago 
bade  him  welcome. — Ethel  Goodrich. 


A  MODERN  SANTA  CLAUS. 

It  was  the  day  before  Christmas.  The  "big  folks"  had  all  gone  to 
town  and  left  the  children  to  entertain  themselves,  which  they  pro- 
ceeded to  do  in  the  most  novel  way.  All  were  agreed  that  they  would 
play   Santa   Claus,   but   it   was   Johnnie's   fertile   idea  that  they   have 

102 


him  come  down  the  chimney  and  out  of  the  fireplace  like  the  real 
Santa  Clans.  Little  Ted.  who  was  willing  to  do  anything  that  would 
win  him  the  favor  of  his  bigger  cousin,  was  honored  by  being  chosen 
as  the  one  who  could  best  make  the  descent.  Accordingly,  he  was 
taken  to  the  housetop,  balanced  for  a  moment  on  the  chimney,  and 
then — whiz!  amid  rattling  bricks  and  falling  dust  he  went  sliding 
down.  down,  'till  he  came  to  a  sudden  halt.  He  was  stuck  fast,  and, 
with  his  arms  pinned  to  his  side,  he  hung  there,  a  helpless  prisoner. 
In  vain  the  children  awaited  his  arrival  at  the  other  end  of  the  line, 
but  dismal  cries  from  the  hollow  depths  of  the  chimney  announced 
the  fact  that  he  was  not  "happy  on  the  way."  Johnnie  took  in  the 
situation  at  once,  but.  nothing  daunted,  he  rushed  for  the  clothes  pole, 
which,  alas!  proved  too  short  to  push  the  unfortunate  one  either  up  or 
down.  Some  one  suggested  that  oil  poured  down  the  chimney  might 
enable  the  would-be  Santa  Claus  to  glide  peacefully  along  y.  but 

kerosene  was  the  only  oil  at  hand,  and  the  smouldeiing  coils  in  the 
ace  made  that  course  unsafe.  The  heat  also  increased  Ted's 
misery,  whose  cries  of  "Fire!"  so  alarmed  the  children  that  they 
hastened  to  pour  wTater  over  the  coals,  and  then  Ted  simply  howled, 
for  the  steam  and  heat  almost  stifled  him,  and  the  poor  little  fellow 
felt  sure  that  his  day  had  come.  Just  as  the  youngsters  were  dis- 
cussing the  advisability  of  furthering  Ted's  progress  by  turning  the 
hose  upon  him  the  "big  folks"  returned,  the  little  folks  retired,  several 
bricks  wrere  removed  from  the  chimney-place,  and  an  exhausted,  be- 
grimed Santa  Claus  was  extracted. — Ethel  Goodrich. 


IN    THE   GARRET. 

It  is  an  old.  unfinished  garret.  The  boards  between  the  brown 
1  afters  are  stained  with  the  rains  of  many  years,  and  as  the  shower 
quickens  its  flood  it  seems  as  if  the  torrent  would  break  through  the 
shingles.  But  you  know  it  will  not.  For  years,  this  same  old  garret- 
roof  has  sheltered  you  and  those  you  love  from  the  heaviest  rains, 
which  only  ooze  through  the  leaks,  and  trickle  down  the  brown  stains, 
— like  tears.  You  love  the  old  garret.  What  a  forage  ground  it  offers 
on  rainy  days!  Piles  of  old  mattresses  to  romp  on.  big  trunks  to 
rummage  in,  pieces  of  quaint  furniture  to  resurrect  from  the  dusty 
corners.  But  best  of  all  is  the  stock  of  cast-away  clothes,  of  twenty 
years  gone  by.  What  sport  to  put  them  on.  buttoning  in  a  pillow  or 
two  for  the  sake  of  good  fullness.  Or  a  broken  tomahawk  may  sug- 
gest less  peaceable  sport,  and,  tricked  out  in  your  war-paint  and  gaudy 
blanket,  you  howl,  dance,  and  wave  your  weapon  to  the  terror  of  your 
little  sister.  Yes,  you  can  make  all  the  noise  you  please,  for  there 
is  no  company  in  the  garret  to  be  disturbed;  there  is  no  baby  in  the 
garret  to  be  wakened.  But  you  grow  tired  of  this,  and  glide  away 
into  the  corner  with  a  yellow-stained  copy  of  "Robinson  Crusoe.'1     The 

ion 


rain  drops  fall  faster,  the  shadows  grow  longer,  but  with  your  head 
upon  your  hand,  by  the  little  garret  window  you  take  passage  with 
your  hero,  and  drift  away  to  the  South  Sea  island,  to  the  land  of  the 
hungry  cannibal. — Ethel  Goodrich. 


LIFE  AND  LOVE. 

Life  stood  on  the  shore  and  waited.  She  waited,  but  knew  not  for 
what.  Gently  the  sun  kissed  her  brow,  and  mild  breezes  played  with 
her  locks.  Cool,  silvery  waves  bathed  her  feet.  Yet  she  moved  not. 
Slowly  the  sun  hid  his  face,  and  the  sky  grew  dark  with  clouds. 
The  breezes  grew  less  boisterously  bold  in  their  frolic  with  her 
wayward  tresses,  and  the  waves  became  rough  and  wild.  Still  she 
moved  not.  Heedless  of  the  wildness  about  her,  she  scanned  the  wide 
sea  before  her.  At  last,  wearied  with  her  faithful  watching  for  a 
something  she  could  not  express,  Life  rested  on  the  cool,  clean  sand, 
and  the  waves  and  the  rolling  pebbles  sang  to  her  a  soft  lullaby. 
She  did  not  see  the  tiny  speck  that  appeared  far  off  on  the  horizon. 
She  did  not  see  it  come  nearer,  nearer,  nearer.  But  she  heard  the  keel 
grate  on  the  sand,  she  felt  a  kind  hand  on  her  arm;  she  awoke,  and 
gazed  into  the  wide,  wistful  eyes  of  Love, — and  Life  knew  for  whom 
she  had  waited. — Ethel  Goodrich. 


WHY   THEY  CAME. 

The  bell  had  rung.  The  rollicksome  boys  and  giggling  girls  had 
fallen  into  their  seats.  The  "opening  exercises"  had  been  "per- 
formed," the  chart  class  had  filed  to  the  front  seat,  and  to  the 
rhythmic  tune  of  their  A,  B,  C's,  aimlessly  swung  their  little  feet.  An 
atmosphere  of  industrious  good-will,  characteristic  of  the  morning 
hours,  pervaded  the  school-room.  Suddenly,  a  knock  was  heard  at 
the  door.  Instantly  the  pencils  ceased  their  wild  incantations,  the 
buzzing  became  subdued,  and  all  the  freckle-faced  Marys  and  tousle- 
headed  Johnnies  craned  their  necks  to  see  who  the  visitor  might  be. 
With  the  dignity  befitting  his  position,  a  school-director  entered, 
stalked  to  the  platform,  and  ensconced  himself  in  the  teacher's  chair. 
The  pencils  resumed  their  tasks,  the  buzzing  began  anew,  only  to 
be  interrupted  by  another  knock.  Again  an  expressive  silence  as  the 
second  director  was  ushered  in.  What  could  it  mean?  The  children 
looked  questioningly  at  the  teacher,  and  she  in  turn  at  the  directors. 
But  the  morning  program  continued.  Johnnie  Johnson  imparted  the 
startling  information  that  c-a-t  spelled  dog,  while  Tommie  Tuckett 
maintained  that  four  less  two  made  six,  and  little  Anna  Moffat  fell 
off  the  seat  in  her  frantic  endeavors  to  air  her  knowledge  on  the 
subject.  All  that  the  children  had  ever  known  had  evidently  departed 
from   them.     The   teacher  was   in   despair,   for   in   the   meantime  the 

104 


third  director  and  the  county  superintendent  bad  appeared  on  the 
scene.  This  certainly  was  no  chance  meeting,  and  the  significant 
combination  struck  terror  to  the  heart  of  the  pedagogue.  In  truth,  her 
knees  shook,  her  voice  trembled,  and  she  knew  not  what  she  did. 
Slowly  the  morning  hours  dragged  along.  At  noon  the  worthy  guests 
departed,  and  in  the  course  of  time  the  teacher  learned  that  the  object 
of  the  meeting  had  been  the  consideration  of  placing  a  pump  in  the 
school-yard. — Ethel  Goodrich. 

TEMPTED. 

A  ragged,  barefoot,  whistling  boy, 

An  active  study  in  brown, 
Trod  merrily  the  dusty  way 

That  leads  from  home  to  town. 

The  dust  lay  deep  along  the  road; 

It  oozed  between  his  toes, 
And  circling  round  in  smoke-like  clouds, 

Lay  lightly  on  his  clothes. 

The  tattered  suit,  those  feet,  that  face, 

Alike  were  turned  to  gray; 
A  lock  of  hair  stuck  through  his  hat 

Like  a  wisp  of  last  year's  hay. 

The  sun  burned  hot  in  the  summer  sky, 

His  arms  hung  listless  down; 
The  way  it  seemed  eternal  long 

As  he  trudged  from  home  to  town. 

He  reached  the  bridge  below  the  dam; 

He  stopped,  and  looked  him  down 
Into  the  cool  where  the  minnows  lay; 

They  never  went  to  town. 

What  pleasant  lives  the  fishes  lead; 

On  a  red-hot  summer  day! 
They  lie  in  the  shade  of  a  dank  old  bridge 

And  sleep  the  day  away. 

For  a  time  he  stood,  and  then  he  sat, 

Dabbling  his  toes  in  the  brook. 
He  thought  of  the  swimming  above  the  dam, 

And  followed  his  thoughts  with  a  look. 

And  as  good  St.  Augustine  has  said, — 
We  doubt  him  not  at  all — 
loo 


The  downward  course  of  man  is  thus; 
Look,  picture,  fascination,  fall. 

And  thus  with  this  poor  erring  youth, 

The  picture  followed  the  look; 
The  fascination  followed  in  turn; 

The  youth  he  followed  the  brook. 

And  the  last  I  saw  of  this  sinful  lad, 

He  had  cleared  at  a  bound  the  wall; 
But  the  last  I  heard  of  his  downward  course 

Was  the  liquid  splash  of  his  fall. 

— Albert  D.  Sanders,  Jr. 


A  TALE  OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

In  a  little  hill  town  in  an  eastern  state,  there  lived  a  boy;  not 
an  unusual  boy,  nor  is  this  an  unusual  story.  He  was  intermittently 
schooled  in  the  learning  of  books  until  his  thirteenth  year,  when  his 
father,  a  farmer  of  the  rugged  hillsides  of  a  rocky  country,  took  him 
from  his  books  and  set  him  at  the  task  of  picking  rocks  from  the  fields, 
whose  absolute  barenness  so  often  finds  its  reflection  in  the  heart  of 
him  who  tills  their  surface.  The  task  was  a  tedious  one,  a  never 
ending  source  of  employment,  and  left  the  boy  alone  with  his  thoughts. 
It  was  ever  the  part  of  the  American  youth  to  think.  And  as  this 
boy  worked  in  the  fields  his  heart  became  very  bitter  over  the  simple 
problems  of  life  that  confronted  him  every  day.  His  ancestors  for 
generations  had  reaped  crops  both  physical  and  spiritual  from  these 
fields;  their  bodies  had  been  hardened  upon  the  fare  which  their  scant 
harvests  afforded,  and  their  hearts  seemed  to  have  partaken  of  the 
nature  of  the  rocks  among  which  they  lived;  everything  underwent 
a  process  of  hardening.  What  had  this  life  of  drudgery,  of  suppressed 
emotions,  and  of  hard-hearted  Puritanism  to  do  with  real  life? 
Life  was  intensely  real  to  him.  Every  night  after  the  evening  meal 
his  father  read  the  only  piece  of  current  literature  the  house  afforded, 
a  weekly  news  sheet,  holding  a  candle  in  his  hand  to  illuminate  the 
page.  The  boy  filled  the  wood-box  and  wiped  the  dishes  for  his 
mother.  It  was  at  this  time  that  he  really  lived;  it  was  then  that 
he  unburdened  the  accumulated  bitternesses  of  his  heart;  and  it  was 
the  loving,  living  sympathy  of  this  poor,  work-worn  woman  that  kept 
these  feelings  from  becoming  a  part  of  his  nature.  At  a  quarter  before 
eight,  the  paper  in  the  other  room  was  folded,  the  family  Bible  was 
taken  down,  the  mother  and  son  took  their  seats,  a  chapter  was 
read,  a  prayer  was  offered  or  rather  spoken,  and  each  took  a  candle 
and  went  to  bed  with  scant  good-nights.  In  his  bed  in  the  attic,  he 
used  to  lie  awake  and  wonder  what  those  chapters  meant  to  his 
father;   for,  if  they  appealed  to  a  man,  they  must  arouse  some  emo- 

106 


tion  in  his  soul;  still  his  Father  was  absolutely  emotionless.  Bitter 
thoughts  crept  into  his  soul:  but  then  the  picture  would  come  to 
him  of  that  prematurely  gray-haired  woman  kneeling  there  by  the 
mantelpiece,  with  fact'  transfigured,  and  he  knew  that  God  was  real. 
One  evening  he  told  his  mother  that  he  could  not  stand  it,  that  he 
must  leave  home;  and  that  night,  when  all  was  silent,  he  quietly 
red  for  his  departure;  as  he  was  about  to  leave  the  house, 
a  frail  little  figure  met  him  by  the  door,  put  a  dog-eared  book  into 
his  hand,  kissed  him.  and  disappeared  without  a  word.  He  felt  that 
his  cheek  was  wet:  and,  as  he  went  out  into  the  darkness,  he  realized 
for  the  first  time  what  it  all  meant. — Albert  D.  Sanders,  Jr. 


A  DECEMBER  NIGHT. 

The  half-moon  peered  over  the  house-tops  and  down  at  an  earth, 
lying  in  the  iron  grasp  of  relentless  winter,  who  pinched  and  pulled 
at  the  paving  blocks  until  they  crackled  in  angry  protest.  Every 
sound  was  magnified  to  its  utmost  extent  by  the  frosty  air,  and  was 
flung  from  wall  to  wall  in  cracking  echoes.  Overhead  the  sere  leaves 
of  a  gnarled  oak  shook  in  the  vagrant  breeze,  mingling  their  silken 
rustle  with  the  hum  of  an  electric-wire,  which  bespoke  the  departing 
street  car.  The  lamp  in  the  little  railroad  station  burned  red  through 
a  soot-blackened  chimney,  the  lanterns  at  the  crossing  winked  and 
blinked  their  green  eyes  as  they  swung  to  and  fro  on  their  unsteady 
supports,  and  the  only  sign  of  life  was  a  tiny  column  of  wood  smoke 
rising  perpendicularly  with  scarcely  a  break  from  the  stovepipe 
protruding  through  the  roof  of  the  gate-man's  tower.  The  world  had 
sought  and  found  "that  gentle  thing  called  sleep;"  and  the  mute 
witnesses  of  man's  strenuous  life  such  as  horseless  wagons,  trainless 
tracks,  empty  streets,  and  a  painter's  scaffold  hanging  at  a  lazy  angle 
on  its  sign-board  served  only  to  strengthen  the  impression  of  uni- 
versal peace  and  quiet. — Albert  D.  Sanders,  Jr. 


THE    OLD   MAN    OF   THE    MOUNTAIN. 

One  night  the  north  wind  rushed  down  the  valley  and  shrieked 
out  at  the  gap,  whipping  the  Connecticut  into  a  foam,  which  shone 
through  the  darkness  with  a^  almost  phosphorescent  light,  and  lash- 
ing the  pines  of  Mt.  Nonatuck  with  a  diabolical  fury,  which  filled 
the  forest  with  the  cracking  of  straining  limbs.  The  clock  in  the 
steeple  of  the  church  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain  had  scarcely  finished 
striking  the  hour  of  nine,  when  there  appeared  on  the  mountain  a 
sight  which  filled  the  windows  in  the  valley  with  faces,  which  were 
wrritten  over  with  mingled  awe  and  delight.  The  mountain-house 
was  in  flames.  And,  within  ten  minutes  of  its  discovery,  the  fire 
had  completely  enveloped  the  building.     Savagely  the  wind  fanned  the 

1    . 


flames,  tearing  away  great  sheets  of  fire,  and  hurling  them  off  into 
space.  The  flagstaff,  with  a  flaming  pennant  at  its  peak,  tottered  and 
fell,  sending  up  a  shower  of  sparks.  Portions  of  the  house  began  to 
fall  in;  and  the  wind,  redoubling  its  force,  tore  off  great  blazing 
planks,  hurling  them  high  in  air.  Soon  the  fire  spread  to  a  part 
of  the  forest,  and  the  awful  sight  of  a  forest-fire  was  added  to  the 
already  fearful  spectacle.  On  the  mountain  a  blistered  and  scorched 
old  man  fought  the  fire  with  the  desperation  that  comes  to  him  who 
defends  his  home;  while,  in  the  shelter  of  a  huge  boulder,  sat  a 
whimpering  old  woman.  At  day-break  this  same  old  woman  led  a 
man  to  the  door  of  a  farm-house  in  the  valley.  And,  as  she  knocked 
at  the  door,  the  "old  man  of  the  mountain"  turned  his  eyes  toward 
the  summit  where  a  towering  pine  was  still  blazing  merrily  and, 
laughing,  clapped  his  blistered  hands.  And  now,  on  a  pleasant  sum- 
mer afternoon,  an  old  man  with  fire-scarred  face  and  hands  sits  on  a 
bench  before  the  red  brick  house  on  the  hill;  and  he  laughs  as  from 
time  to  time  he  raises  his  sightless  eyes  toward  invisible  mountains. — 
A.  D.  Sanders,  Jr. 


A     TRAGEDY. 


"What's  the  commotion?  Is  some  one  hurt?"  was  whispered  from 
lip  to  lip  as  a  surging  mass  of  people  crowded  around  the  front  elevator 
in  one  of  the  large  stores.  A  deep  inexplicable  hush  of  fear  was  felt; 
surely  something  had  happened.  At  length,  after  carefully  and  pain- 
fully making  our  way  nearer,  we  could  see  the  object  of  pity,  a 
woman's  form  reclining  in  a  man's  strong  arms.  She  had  fainted, 
probably  from  exhaustion  or  fright,  or  perhaps  had  been  seized  with 
heart  failure.  At  any  rate  she  was  in  a  helpless  condition,  and  her 
benefactor  was  in  the  act  of  carrying  her  to  the  physician's  office. 
He  evidently  was  not  much  of  an  expert  in  caring  for  women  so 
afflicted,  for  he  held  her  in  what  seemed  to  be  a  very  uncomfortable 
position,  but  gave  his  attention  to  the  care  of  her  rich  silk  dress. 
He  also  seemed  ignorant  about  the  care  of  the  body  in  such  cases  or, 
perhaps,  wanted  to  shift  the  responsibility  upon  the  physician, — for  he 
made  no  attempt  to  get  water  or  smelling  salts  or  even  to  loosen 
the  garments  about  her  throat  and  waist.  No  wonder  that  the  poor 
thing  could  not  breathe!  And  still  the  crowd  pressed  nearer.  It 
seemed  that  the  elevator  would  never  come.  Every  one  realized  that 
something  must  be  done,  when  a  motherly  old  woman  pressed  her 
way  nearer,  and  leaning  forward  looked  anxiously  into  the  face 
of  the  motionless  woman,  but  turned  abruptly  away,  exclaiming, 
"Its  wax." — Mary  Window. 

TO    A    VIOLET. 

Mystified,  I  look  at  you, 
Violet  so  sweet  and  true, 

I(i8 


Gazing  with  your  soulful  eyes, 
Ever  upward  toward  the  skies. 
Why  God  chose  you  first  to  bloom, 
First  to  brighten  winter's  gloom, 
This  I  ask. 

Tell  me,  was  your  heart  so  true 
That  he  made  you  heavenly  blue? 
Did  he  think  that  one  so  fair 
Lived  alone  on  Spring's  pure  air? 
If  some  day  I  come  to  thee, 
Wilt  thou  whisper  then  to  me 

All  I  ask?  — Loulu  M.  Mann. 


MY  ONLY  BURGLAR  EXPERIENCE. 

'[  he  most  exciting  experience  I  ever  had  was  when  I  was  but  a 
girl  of  fifteen.  I  was  visiting  at  my  grandmother's  home  in  Virginia. 
One  evening  we  staid  up  very  late,  talking  on  the  wide  veranda. 
About  midnight  I  went  up  to  my  room.  A  peculiar  feeling  came  over 
me  just  as  I  was  entering,  and  for  the  first  time  I  felt  afraid. 
Glancing  about,  I  noticed  that  everything  was  undisturbed,  except 
a  lattice  window  which  opened  upon  a  veranda.  I  had  taken  down 
my  hair  and  was  standing  before  the  mirror  brushing  it,  when  I 
noticed  a  movement  of  the  white  curtain  which  hung  around  the  bed. 
Mechanically  I  continued  brushing,  but  my  eyes  were  fixed  on  that 
part  of  the  mirror  which  reflected  the  lower  part  of  the  bed.  There 
was  a  brown  hand  pulling  it  back,  and  then  from  behind  this  curtain 
peered  the  evil  face  of  a  man.  The  dark  eyes  sent  a  horrible  shudder 
through  my  being,  but  still  I  brushed.  In  a  moment  the  curtain  fell 
back  in  place.  Realizing  that  it  would  be  impossible  to  open  the 
heavy  door,  fastened  with  its  lock  and  chain,  in  less  than  a  minute  I 
gave  up  the  idea  of  rushing  out  of  the  room.  My  heart  beat  furiously, 
but  soon  I  began  to  hum  a  tune,  meanwhile  wondering  what 
to  do.  Suddenly  a  thought  came  to  me,  and  pulling  open  the  dresser- 
drawer  I  searched  for  hair-crimpers.  Then  walking  over  to  the 
opposite  corner  of  the  room,  I  looked  into  the  water-pitcher.  It 
was  filled  with  water,  but  I  stopped  my  singing  with  the  exclamation, 
"What  luck!  Just  because  I  simply  must  have  some  water,  there  isn't 
a  drop."  Catching  up  a  small  pitcher  I  started  for  the  door,  and 
with  nervous  hand  and  a  fast  throbbing  heart,  I  undid  the  fastenings 
and  went  out. 

On  tiptoe  I  ran  down  the  long  hall-way  and  straight  to  the  servants' 
quarters.  Six  men  in  a  few  minutes  were  ready  to  capture  the  man. 
They  suspected  that  there  was  more  than  one,  and  they  were  not 
mistaken,  for  soon  the  one  seen  in  my  room  came  stealthily  out  upon 

109 


the  veranda  and  was  joined  by  another,  then  both  entered  my  room 
again. 

I  stood  out  in  the  yard  trembling  with  fright.  Soon  sounds  were 
heard  from  the  house  and  several  shots,  then  a  man  dashed  out  in 
the  darkness. 

Well,  I  always  hate  to  think  of  what  happened  then.  The  man 
who  attempted  to  escape  was  captured,  and  the  other  was  carried 
from  the  house,  lifeless. — Loulu  M.  Mann. 


HER   STRUGGLE. 

The  day  was  drawing  to  a  close.  The  pictures,  furniture,  and 
carpet  were  gradually  merging  into  a  dull  gray. 

She  sat  with  bowed  head  as  if  in  deep  thought.  Her  features 
were  not  discernible,  and  her  old-fashioned,  worn  garments  were 
hidden  by  the  sympathetic  gloom. 

At  a  window  stood  a  child  of  but  two  years.  That  he  was 
tramping  upon  fragile  curtains,  rubbing  his  nose  and  fingers  across 
the  window-pane,  and  chattering  to  himself  gleefully,  seemed  to 
make  no  impression  upon  her. 

After  waiting  some  little  time  the  maid  appeared  and  said,  "The 
Ladies  of  the  Board  told  me  to  take  the  little  fellow  to  the  nursery 
after  you  had  signed  these  papers,  so  I  will  be  back  in  just  a  moment." 

The  mother  took  the  papers  in  her  toil-marked  hands,,  read  them 
through,  once,  twice,  and  then  again.  There  were  no  tears  on  her 
cheeks;  the  firmly-closed  lips  and  the  expression  of  unutterable  sorrow 
showing  so  plainly  on  her  face  revealed  her  grief.  Finishing,  she 
dropped  into  a  chair,  thought  of  the  fatherless  home,  the  dreary 
prospects,  the  hard  struggle  for  bread;  then  fighting  again  the  battle 
and  conquering,  she  signed  her  name  after  the  sentence,  "To  the 
aforesaid  Home  for  Friendless  Children  I  give  this  child,  and  hereby 
relinquish  all  claims." — Loulu  M.  Mann. 


TOWSER'S  SLEEPING  INTEREST. 

They  were  sitting  on  the  veranda  smoking.  The  moon  in  her 
splendor  lighted  up  the  darkened  earth.  A  lull  had  come  over  the 
conversation  of  the  party;  the  fund  of  stories  and  jokes  seemed  to 
be  exhausted;  and  even  the  laughter  of  the  girls  overhead  had  died 
away. 

Old  Towser  was  lying  at  Jack's  feet,  with  his  head  resting  on  his 
fore-legs  breathing  heavily.  "Kick  that  dog,  will  you,"  said  the 
man  sitting  on  the  step,  "and  wake  him  up.  If  there  is  anything  I 
cannot  endure  its  snoring."  Jack  leaned  over,  massaged  vigorously 
the  ear  of  the  sleeping  dog  and  said,  "Here,  old  fellow,  you  mustn't 
disturb  the  public  peace."     Then  all  was  quiet  once  again.     Jack  kept 

110 


his  eyes  fixed  on  the  man  on  the  step,  and  wondered  what  he  was 
thinking  of,  and  whether  the  girl  with  whom  he  had  been  all  the  even- 
ing was  as  much  to  him  as  to  himself.  Jack  had  come  to  the  con- 
clusion that  this  house  party  would  settle  the  whole  matter,  and 
he  feared  that  it  would  not  be  as  he  wished  it.  It  was  pretty  hard, 
he  thought,  to  be  obliged  to  give  her  up  just  at  the  time  when 
fortune  seemed  ready  to  add  its  blessing.  It  was  still  harder  to 
think  that  he  was  to  be  thrust  aside  for  a  man  like  Dunn.  While 
Jack  was  thus  meditating,  Dunn,  once  more  annoyed,  hit  Towser 
a  blow  on  the  head.  The  old  fellow  growled,  then  rising  walked 
around  to  the  other  side  of  Jack's  chair  and  lay  down.  A  thought 
flashed  through  Jack's  mind.  He  jumped  up,  took  Tom  by  the  arm, 
and  started  down  the  drive-way.  Jack  talked  earnestly,  and  Tom 
listened  attentively.  Then  after  a  few  minutes  excited  conversation 
they  hurried  to  find  the  coachman.  A  little  later  the  two  men  were 
seen  carrying  grips  and  dress-suit  cases  from  one  part  of  the  upper 
hall  to  another.  Then  they  went  down  stairs,  and  met  the  men 
coming  indoors.  "It's  one  o'clock,"  said  Dunn,  "and  I  am  tired, 
so  will  just  go  to  my  room."  "Hope  you  won't  feel  offended,  Dunn," 
said  Tom,  "but  sister  said  that  she  thought  you  would  get  better 
air  in  the  corner  room  having  north  and  east  windows,  so  I  had 
your  baggage  moved  over  there — you  will  find  it  all  right." 

The  next  morning  the  girls  and  men  were  eating  breakfast  and 
chatting  gaily.  Tom  and  Jack  exchanged  significant  glances  on  notic- 
ing Dunn's  scowling  countenance.  The  picnic  planned  for  the  day  was 
a  success,  but  Dunn,  wearied  by  a  sleepless  night  and  the  long  drive 
in  the  sun,  had  excused  himself,  and  had  gone  back  to  the  house  to  rest. 
When  the  party  came  home  late  that  evening  the  maid  said  that  Mr. 
Dunn  wished  to  be  excused  as  he  was  suffering  from  a  headache.  Then 
Jack  and  Tom  got  together  again,  held  another  interview  with  the 
coachman,  and  again  piloted  him  to  the  north-east  room  on  the  third 
floor.  The  next  morning  Dunn  was  no  better;  he  had  passed  a  sleepless 
night,  he  said,  and  then  made  inquiries  of  Tom  as  to  who  occupied  the 
rooms  on  the  floor  above.  Indifferently  Tom  told  him  the  rooms  which 
the  different  girls  had  chosen.  "And  who  did  you  say,"  asked  Dunn, 
"had  the  north-east  room?"  "Oh,  sister  has  that,"  Tom  replied.  "She 
snores  to  terribly  that  she  took  the  corner  room  so  as  not  to  disturb 
anyone." 

The  next  day  Dunn  was  worn  out.  After  reading  his  mail,  he 
announced  that  the  firm  had  asked  him  to  return  immediately  to  head- 
quarters, so  he  left  on  an  afternoon  train.  Two  weeks  later,  all  the 
guests  had  departed,  all  except  one,  and  that  one  is  sitting  under  the 
shade  of  the  apple-tree  suspiciously  near  Tom's  sister,  while  Towser, 
quietly  asleep  at  their  feet,  snores  on. — Loulu  M.  Mann. 


Ill 


MORNING    CHARMS. 

In  summer  is  the  slothful  man  most  reprehensible.  Then  the 
beauties  of  early  morn  appeal  to  the  most  insensate  of  natures. 
This  morning  the  sun  had  risen  to  an  altitude  of  twenty  degrees,  and 
his  fervid  rays  had  banished  the  chill  of  night.  The  street  lay  in 
quiet  grace  before  me.  The  shadow  cast  by  a  three-story  flat  fell  in 
sharp  outline  across  the  white  road.  The  trees  stretched  away  to 
where  they  met  the  deep  blue  of  the  horizon,  their  green  foliage 
outlined  against  the  hazy  background  of  sky.  The  tender  leaf  of  an 
old  oak  tree  seemed,  in  its  length  of  scarce  an  inch,  diminutive  beside 
his  more  advanced  companion  on  the  maple  whose  brownish-green  face 
shone  in  the  sunlight.  Even  the  ash  lifted  her  head  in  pride  as  she 
gazed  upon  her  slender  leaves,  while  the  sparrows  twittered  and 
tittered  as  a  robin  hopped  slowly  beneath  their  cozy  retreat.  A  cool 
breeze  came  laden  with  secrets  from  the  southwest.  A  few  houses 
had  assumed  a  busy  air,  but  the  majority  lay  deep  in  slumber, 
unmindful  of  the  gay  lawns  which  the  sunlight  had  awakened  with 
its  kisses.  And  yet,  though  one's .  heart  chords  may  be  attuned  to 
harmonize  with  nature,  man  will  remain  in  tne  denseness  of  slumber. 
— W.  A.  Oldfield. 


ROARIN'  TAM. 


Doun  frae  the  Hielands  cam'  auld  roarin'  Tarn, 
Wi'  a  pipe  in  his  man'  an'  his  pooch  in  his  han, 
And  he'd  fecht  ony  mon  wha  would  no  tak'  a  dram 
To  the  health  o'  Bonnie  Prince  Charlie. 

Wi'  a  guid  canny  Scot  he  would  aye  tak'  a  gill, 
For  he  lo'ed  fine  the  whusky  that  comes  frae  the  hill, 
And  the  bumpers  wi'  toddy  he'd  owre  and  owre  fill 
To  the  health  o'  Bonnie  Prince  Charlie. 

When  the  pibroch  brak'  forth  wi'  its  bonny  wild  skirl, 
His  een  would  flash  fire  and  wi'  mony  a  whirl. 
He'd  dance  off  a  reel  wi'  maist  ony  auld  churl 
To  the  glory  o'  Bonnie  Prince  Charlie. 

Then  awa'  wi'  the  Camerons  to  join  Charlie's  band, 
And  awa'  bearin'  speedy  the  blood-dipped  brand, 
Ca'  the  clans  a'thegither  from  over  the  land 
To  fecht  for  Bonnie  Prince  Charlie. 

And  among  the  brave  lads  who  to  Culloden  came, 
None  focht  ony  fiercer  than  our  roarin'  Tarn, 
But  the  coronach  wailed  o'er  him  at  Preston  Pan 
For  he  died  in  the  cause  o'  Prince  Charlie. 

— Geo.  Craig  Stewart. 
112 


A   LULLABY. 

The  heather  is  rolling  in  billows  of  blue; 

Sleep,  my  pretty  dearie,  O; 
And  the  burnie  is  wimplin'  and  calling  to  you; 

Sleep,  for  my  bairn  is  weary,  0; 
Away  in  a  dream-cable  out  to  the  deep. 
Rocking  along  on  the  billows  of  sleep, 

From  a  land  that  is  mirky  and  dreary,  O. 

Cludies  are  puffin'  across  the  sky, 

Cuddle  close,   ma'  weanie   0; 
Your  faither  is  bringin'  hame  the  kye, 

Close  your  roguish  eenie  O; 
The  moon   is  keekin'  asklent  the  braes, 
And  her  beamies  are  kittlin  at  your  taes, 

Sleep,  ma  bonnie  wee  Jeanie  O. 

Stars   are   tumblin'   into   our  ken; 

Canty,  and  gey,  and  happy,  O; 
Shadows  are  creepin'   about  i'   the  glen; 

Sleep,  and  take  your  nappie  0; 
Father  is  coming  over  the  lea, 
Bringing  a  leesome   kiss  to  thee, 

Hark!     There's  his  gentle   tappie,   O. 

— George  Craig  Stewart. 


THE  POET  AND  THE  OTHER  WORLD. 

To  all  true  poets  is  given  an  insight  clear 
To  life  and  death  and  mysteries  profound; 
And  bliss  it  is  to  sit  us  down  and  hear 
The  lofty  harmonies  of  sense  and  sound, 
That  in  their  verses,  heaven-born,  abound. 
Some  call  Death  foe,  but  one  who  is  a  bard 
Cries  out,  "O  Death,  the  poor  man's  dearest  friend, 
The  kindest  and  the  best,"  and  smiles  at  him. 
Another  thus,  for  "there  no  shade  can  last, 
In  that  deep  dawn  behind  the  tomb."     Thank  God, 
"That  undiscovered  country,  from  whose  bourn 
No  traveler  returns"  is  now  revealed. 
Do  thou  no  longer  fear;   "sustained  and  soothed 
By  an   unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave, 
Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams." 
The  life  that  aged,  slips  away  from  us, 
Goes  "gently,  like  the  light  upon  a  hill, 

113 


Of  which  none  names  the  moment  that  it  goes, 
Though  all.  see  when  'tis  gone."     Our  death  and  birth 
Alike  mysterious;  how  well  'tis  said, 
"Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting. 
The  soul  that  rises  with  us,  our  life's  star, 
Has  had   elsewhere  its  setting."     There's  no  death. 
"Dust  to  the  dust,  but  the  pure  spirit  shall  flow 
Back  to  the  burning  fountain  whence  it  came, 
A  portion  of  the  Eternal,  which  must  glow 
Thro'  time  and  change  unquenchably  the  same." 
1  know  how  people  say  live  now  or  never; 
But  hark,  "Leave  now  for  dogs, — man  has  forever." 
No  doubting  shackles  poets;    they  are  seers, 
And  speak  as  with  authority;  they  rise, 
And  lead  us  on,  and  point  unerringly. 
"There's  a  perpetual  spring,  perpetual  youth; 
No  heart-benumbing  cold  nor  scorching  heat, 
Famine,  nor  age,  have  any  being  there." 
And  when  they  pass  away,  these  sons  of  God, 
They  bridge  the  chasm  twixt  earth  and  God's  own  home, 
And  pant,  "Heav'n  opens  on  my  eyes — my  ears 
With   sound   seraphic  ring:"   and  then  they  shout 
"Lend,  lend  your  wings,  I   mount,   I   fly! 
O  grave!   where  is  thy  victory? 
O  death!    where  is  thy  sting?" 
j  — George  Craig  Stewart. 


THE   LYNCHING. 

The  slayer  of  youth  is  found, 

And   hurried   away  to  jail, 
But  a  thousand  feet  rush  thro'  the  street, 

And  hoarse  throats  gasp  the  tale 
Of  a  daughter's  death,  and  they  catch  their  breath, 

And  their  faces  flushed  turn  pale. 

And  the  prisoner  shrinks   in  fright, 

As  he  hears  that  blood-chilling  yell, 
A  rush;  a  crash;   down  go  doors  with  a  smash, 

And  the  horde  struggles  in   pell-mell; 
"Drag  him  out!    Let  him  stretch!    Shoot  him!    Burn  him,  the  wretch! 

Men  rave  like  the  fiends  of  hell. 

He  is  bound  to  a  stake  with  chains; 

The  faggots  about  him  piled; 
And  he  shrieks  as  the  heat  reaches  up  from  his  feet, 

And  his  bloodshot  eyes  glance  wild. 

114 


All  is  silence  save  there  where  his  -  the  air; 

This  poor  sinner  that's  some  mother's  child. 

All   is  over,   the  fire  is  out. 

The  crowd   has  dispersed  and  gone  home; 
But  the  charred  corse  is  there  with  its  horrible  stare, 

From  those  blackened  sockets  of  bone. 
And  the  soul  that   was  there,  has  swung  out  on  the  air 

To  appear  at  the  great  judgment  throne. 

And   is  this  the  proud  land  of  my  birth, 

With  its  progress  so  boasted  and  grand? 
Is  justice  now  dead ;    is  it  no  longer  said 

That  law  is  a  part  of  our  land? 
Whether  negro  or  white,  know  that  might  ne'er  makes  right, 

And   together  on  justice   we   stand. 

— George  Craig  Stewart. 

A   CHALLENGE. 

(  With  due  apologies  to  the  shades  of  Wendell  Phillips.) 

Now.  bright-eyed  pansy,  proud  of  your  fame,  go  back  with  me  to 
the  beginning  of  the  spring,  and  select  what  flower  you  please.  Let 
it  be  either  wild  or  tame;  let  it  have  a  fragrance,  the  result  of  many 
generations  of  culture;  let  it  have  the  best  of  nature's  care;  let  it  add 
to  this  the  better  preparation  of  vigorous  life;  crown  its  stem  with 
leaves  of  richest  green,  and  show  me  the  flower  of  any  family  for 
whom  its  most  ardent  admirers  will  breathe  forth  praises  numerous 
as  flower-lovers  have  showered  upon  the  violet. 

******** 

You  think  me  a  fanatic  to-night;  for  you  see  nature,  not  with  your 
eyes,  but  with  your  fancies.  But  when  other  days  shall  have  come,  the 
Muse  of  Beauty  will  put  the  wild  rose  for  the  summer,  the  golden  rod 
for  autumn,  the  carnation  for  winter,  the  geraniunvfor  all  seasons, 
choose  the  hypatica  as  the  first-born  flower  of  our  opening  sprinr;. 
and  the  bloodroot  as  the  short-lived  child  of  noon-day;  then,  dippi: -..-; 
her  pen  .in  the  clear  blue  sea,  will  write  on  the  white  page, 
them  all,  the  name  of  the  modest,  the  beautiful,  the  ever-blue  violet. 
— Esther   L.    Stowe. 


THE   IMMORTAL   J.   X. 

The  "Immortal  J.  N./'  that  peculiar  character  who  is  well  known 
throughout  Ohio,  Indiana,  and  Illinois,  was  once  a  brilliant  lawyer. 
At  one  time  he  defended  a  prisoner  accused  of  murder,  and  won  the 
case.  The  freed  man  later  confessed  his  crime  to  the  lawyer,  and 
the  'Immortal  J.  A.."  or  J.  X.  Free,  as  he  was  called  at  that  time,  was 
shocked  by  the  confession,  and,  as  a  result,   his  mind  was  deranged. 

II.") 


Since  then  he  has  imagined  that  he  has  absolute  control  of  a  secret 
and  wonderful  power  that  he  has  termed  "the  pressure."  At  his  will, 
this  power  may  be  released,  and  all  humanity  will  be  crushed  out  of 
existence.  He  also  has  the  power  to  "raise  the  veil."  What  this  power 
is  nobody  knows,  and  J.  N.,  as  he  is  commonly  called,  has  not  yet  taken 
it  into  his  head  to  explain.  With  his  erect  figure,  his  long  grey  hair 
that  hangs  to  his  shoulders,  and  his  strangeness  of  manner,  he  is  a 
character  not  easily  forgotten.  J.  N.  has  a  roving  disposition,  and 
frequently  makes  engagements  "to  relieve  the  pressure,"  or  "raise 
the  veil,"  but  a  telegram  always  announces,  at  the  last  moment,  his 
inability  to  be  present,  and  "the  veil"  and  "the  pressure"  remain 
unchanged.  J.  N.  has  no  occupation,  but  his  over-developed  persistence 
has  enabled  him  to  live  at  the  expense  of  hotels  and  charitable  people 
and  to  secure  a  life  pass  on  almost  every  railroad  in  the  three  States 
mentioned.  J.  N.  sometimes  encounters  a  railway  superintendent  who 
is  stubborn,  and  who  refuses  to  give  up  a  pass  at  the  first  demand. 
However,  the  "Immortal's"  time  is  not  valuable,  and  he  patiently 
holds  "the  pressure"  over  the  head  of  the  determined  superintendent 
until,  in  order  to  get  rid  of  a  nuisance,  the  official  grants  transpor- 
tation. Not  long  ago  the  pass-finder  entered  the  office  of  a  division 
superintendent  of  the  Erie  Railway  and  asked  for  transportation  to 
Chicago.  The  superintendent  had  heard  of  J.  N.,  and  was  prepared. 
He  wrote  out  a  pass  over  the  Erie  line  that  read,  "good  to  walk  from 
L to  Chicago."  J.  N.  accepted  it  without  a  murmur.  The  con- 
ductor on  the  next  west-bound  train  noticed  a  strange-looking  man 
walking  up  and  down  the  aisle  of  a  car.  Upon  demanding  the 
stranger's  ticket,  the  bogus  pass  was  produced.  The  conductor 
informed  the  man  that  it  could  not  be  accepted.  "The  Superintendent 
gave  me  this  pass,"  J.  N.  replied,  "and  you  will  find  me  walking  right 
here  when  this  train  goes  into  Chicago,"  and  he  was. — Harry  E.  Weese. 


THE    NEW   AUTOMOBILE. 

What  is  that  creature  that  I  see 
A-coming   down   the   street? 

It  looks  much  like  a  hitching-post; 
.It  moves.     Where  are  its  feet? 

It  seems  to  have  a  head  and  hat, 
And   arms   methinks   I    see. 

A  hitching-post  with  arms  and  head? 
What  may   this   creature   be? 

It  comes  much  nearer,  and  I   spy 
Great  buttons    in   two   rows. 

A  flopping  train  brings  up  the  rear, 
And   sweeps  where'er   it  goes. 

116 


The    moving   object   is   at   hand — 

This  is  no  idle  joke — 
It  is  a   woman,   lately  clad. 

In    "automobile"    cloak. 

— H.  E.  Weese. 


HOW    WILLIE    SMITH    BECAME    NOTORIOUS. 

The  Smith  family  was  having  its  troubles.  Mrs.  Smith,  a  nervous 
little  woman,  was  almost  prostrated,  and  all  because  her  son  Willie 
had  I  Gen  unwise  enough  to  swallow  a  tack.  Of  course,  the  operation 
of  eating  a  tack  is  nothing  in  this  day  of  salads  and  midnight  lunches, 
and  Willie's  act  had  caused  the  Smith  family  little  concern.  How- 
ever, the  eagle-eyed  reporter  who  lived  across  the  street  saw  an  oppor- 
tunity to  make  enough  to  pay  his  dog  tax,  and,  in  order  to  give  the 
story  a  little  local  color,  he  had  Willie  Smith  at  the  po*nt  of  death 
as  a  result  of  inhaling  two  dozen  tacks  during  a  violent  sneeze.  The 
article  said  that  physicians  were  unable  to  remove  the  obstacles  from 
WJU'e's  wind-pipe,  and,  as  a  result,  the  youth  was  dying.  If  there  was 
one  thing  above  all  others  that  Mrs.  Smith  did  despise,  it  was  news- 
paper notorietv.  However,  she  soon  learned  that  this  was  the  least 
of  her  troubles,  for  the  story  had  left  her  a  victim  of  a  sympathetic 
public.  The  next  day  she  received  a  letter  addressed  in  a  strange 
hand.  She  opened  it,  and  found  the  following:  "My  dear  Mrs.  Smith: 
Have  just  read  the  account  of  your  son's  bad  condition  to  mortal 
sense.  Call  a  Christian  Science  healer.  My  son  was  on  the  verge  of 
the  grave  from  inhaLng  cigarettes.  He  is  now  cured.  If  Christian 
Science  will  cure  one  who  has  inhaled  cigarettes,  it  can  cure  one  who 
has  inhaled  tacks.  You  will  find  it  a  sure  remedy  in  all  phases  of 
error  and  disease.  Turn  to  it  as  a  last  resort.  In  brotherly  love, 
"Duluth,   Minn.  Mrs.  Pennyfather. 

"P.  S.— I  don't  want  anything  for  what  I  do." 

I  rs.  Smith  was  almost  frantic.  A  letter  that  came  the  next  day 
would  have  remained  unopened,  had  not  curiosity,  which  is  natural 
to  her  sex,  urged  her  to  look  into  the  contents  of  a  second  message' 
sent  for  Willie's  benefit.  It  was  addressed  to  Willie  Smith,  Chicago, 
111.,  to  be  opened  by  friends  or  relatives.  Evidently,  in  some  localit  ei, 
Willie  was  thought  to  be  very  near  death's  door.  The  letter  read  as 
follow.:  "Having  seen  the  enclosed  clipping  in  the  New  York  Herald, 
I  wish  to  suggest  a  way  to  remove  tacks.  Make  an  artificial  magnet 
with  a  small  wire  for  core.  Insert  wire,  turn  on  current,  and  tacks 
may  stick  to  end  of  wire.  Hoping  to  hear  of  their  being  removed  some 
way,   I  am,  Yours  truly, 

"Augusta,  Me.  M.  H.  Wells." 

The  writer  took  especial   pains  to  place  his  address  in  full  at  the 
bottom  of  the  page.     No  doubt  he  anticipated  a  large  reward  for  this 

117 


bit  of  information.  At  this  moment,  the  supposedly  dying  youth  was 
"it"  in  a  game  of  "gone  off,"  while  his  mother  was  wondering  how 
she  might  stop  this  unpleasant  and  one-sided  correspondence.  During 
the  following  week  letters  were  received  from  points  in  California, 
New  Mexico,  Florida,  and  Vermont.  However,  they  remained 
unopened,  for  Mrs.  Smith  had  stopped  reading  letters,  and  had  stopped 
speaking  to  her  neighbor  reporter,  while  her  son,  Willie,  has  proved 
that  notoriety  is  not  always  gained  by  great  deeds,  but  that  anyone 
may  win  national  renown  by  swallowing  an  insignificant  tack. — Harry 
E.   Weese. 


THE  FALL  OF  MARTIN. 

Martin  Jones  was  the  laziest  man  in  town.  He  knew  it,  his  wife 
knew  it,  and  all  the  neighbors  knew  it,  yet  he  was  without  a  care. 
He  had,  apparently,  outlived  his  pride,  and  industry  had  ceased  to 
appear  to  him  a  virtue.  For  all  his  laziness,  "Mart"  was  a  good- 
natured  man,  and  always  listened  attentively  to  the  numerous  upbraid- 
ings  of  his  industrious  little  wife.  Only  on  rare  occasions  would  he  lose 
his  temper,  and  at  these  times  he  would  prove  himself  a  connoisseur 
in  the  art  of  swearing.  Of  late,  his  wife  had  had  more  than  her  share 
of  trouble.  She  had  begun  her  house-cleaning,  but  the  work  could  not 
be  completed  until  one  of  the  rooms  of  the  second  floor  of  their  "story- 
and-a-half"  dwelling  had  received  a  coat  of  whitewash.  "Mart" 
had  been  asked  twenty  times,  at  least,  to  do  this  work,  and  had  prom- 
ised as  often.  However,  it  was  always  "to-morrow"  with  him,  but 
to-morrow  never  came.  It  had  come  to  the  point  where  Mrs.  Jones 
could  endure  his  inactivity  no  longer.  "Mart  Jones,"  she  said,  in  her 
most  angry  tone,  "if  you  don't  whitewash  that  room  before  the  mis- 
sionary society  meeting,  and  that's  just  a  week  from  to-day,  1  am 
going  to  tell  all  the  women  just  how  lazy  you  are."  "I'll  do  it  to-mor- 
row," drawled  Martin,  but  the  work  was  unfinished  the  day  prior  to 
the  meeting.  Mrs.  Jones  and  her  neighbors  were  surprised  when,  on 
his  last  day  of  grace,  they  saw  "Mart,"  attired  in  blue  overalls  and 
jacket,  stirring  whitewash  in  the  back  yard.  He  rushed 'through  the 
room  and  escaped  upstairs  with  his  brush  and  bucket,  just  in  time  to 
avoid  the  first  visitor.  For  once  his  little  remaining  pride  had  urged 
him  to  work,  and  his  wife  was  happy.  It  was  a  sultry  afternoon,  and 
it  seemed  to  Martin  that  this  bit  of  work  was  severe  enough  to  repay 
him  for  his  many  days  of  ease.  The  sun  beat  down  hot  upon  the 
roof,  and,  with  a  muttered  curse,  the  whitewasher  threw  aside  his 
jacket,  and  continued  his  work  in  the  somewhat  decollete  costume  of  a 
laborer.  In  the  cool  room  below  the  little  band  of  faithful  women 
worshiped  in  peace,  and  little  dreamed  that,  immediately  over  their 
heads,  a  fellow-creature  was  enduring  all  the  torments  of  the  lower 
regions.  One  of  their  number  was  in  the  act  of  closing  the  meeting 
with  a  short  prayer.     "If  a  man  fall,"  she  said,  but  she  did  not  finish. 

118 


Their  was  a  muttered  oath,  a  crash,  and  tlio  door  leading  to  the  stair 
case  hurst  open.     Out  shot  a   long-handled    whitewash   brush,   followed 
closely   by   an    empty    bucket    and    a   six-foot    man.   so    white   that  he 
resembled  a  new  kind  of  flexible  statue.     The  fall  of  the  discomfited 
Martin  ended  when  he  struck  beneath  a  table  that  was  standing  against 
the  wall   opposite  the  stairway.     The  women  were,  at  first,  too  aston- 
ished   to   speak,   and    the    prayer   ended    without   ceremony.     "Mart's' 
wife  was  the  first  to  regain  her  voice,  and  she  timidly  asked  him  if 
he  was  hurt.     Martin  made  no  immediate  reply,  but  remained  beneath 
the   friendly  table  long  enough  to  collect  his  scattered  senses  and  to 
shake  a  little  whitewash  from  his  eyebrows  and  whiskers.     The  sym- 
pathetic  women    began    to   gather  around,   but   withdrew   respectfully 
when    they   heard    the    language    that    came    from    beneath   the   table. 
Despite  the  fact  that  he  made  the  air  blue  with  his  cursing,  "Mart" 
left    a    white    path    as    he    retreated    towards   the    kitchen.      His    long 
delayed  attempt  at  work  barely  saved  him  from  being  exposed  to  the 
company  by  his  wife,  but,  unfortunately  for  himself,  a  stumble  over 
his  bucket  caused  his  pride  to  take  a  fall,  and  he  was  thus  forced  to 
expose   himself   unexpectedly   to   the    missionary  society.     The   lesson 
had   its  effect  on   "Mart."     Although  his  wife  knew  better  than  ever 
to  mention  the  word  "whitewash"  to  him  again,  he  was  always  prompt 
in  answering  her  demands,  but  could  never  be  persuaded  to  have  the 
least  sympathy  with  a  missionary  society. — Harry  E.  Weese. 


THE  COWSLIP. 


Cowslip    by   the   rill. 

Tell   me  are  you  never  lonely? 

Do  you  never  wish 

Some   great  place   to   fill. 

Cowslip  by  the   rill? 

Does   not   your  bright  eye 
Long  on   wider  fields  to  gaze? 
Does  not  your  gay  heart  sigh. 
Like  the  birds  to  fly? 

Like  them  to  sing, 
To  mount  the  tree  tops  high, 
Then   soar   across   the   sky, 
O   cowslip   by   the    rill? 

You  nod  and  dance  in  glee, 
Wink  and   blink  at  the  sun. 
Flirt   with   each   breeze  you   see. 
If  you   could,   away   you'd   run. 

119 


Cowslip   by  the   rill, 

Wonder   fills    your    face, 
Innocence    with    every    grace, 
Cowslip  by  the  rill. 

Ah!    your   roguish   face   and   eyes, 
What  charm  and  beauty  in  them  lies; 
Enough  blind  Cupid's  string  to  clip, 
If  he  should  take  a  sip. 

Blooming  in  the  meadow, 
Alone  and  unseen; 
Glittering    'neath    the    willow, 
In  your  bed  of  green. 

Happy  cowslip! 
Who    can    your    place   fill, 
When  you've  left  us, 
Cowslip  by  the  rill? 

— Josephine  Gilmore. 


A  LITERARY  CONVERSATION. 

It  was  a  cold  winter  day.  Through  the  air  shivered  a  few  snow- 
flakes;  while  the  lingering  leaves',  hanging  their  dejected  heads  as  if 
loath  to  leave  their  summer  home,  were  lit  up  only  by  the  last  rays 
of  the  setting  sun.  Peering  out  upon  this  bleak  scene,  the  dejected 
student  viewed  the  heavens  and  earth  to  find  a  subject  for  a  para- 
graph. Everything  seemed  to  congeal  before  his  eyes.  It  was  a  dreary 
outlook  to  his  weary,  troubled  mind.  Autumn  had  come,  gone,  was 
dead,  buried,  and  the  funeral  rites  were  now  over.  Winter  was 
approaching,  but  it  gave  him  a  chill  even  to  think  of  that.  His  cour- 
age was  failing,  and  he  was  about  to  give  up  in  despair. 

Suddenly,  voices  from  his  study  table  aroused  him.  In  clear 
accents,  the  clock  recited,  "Some  doubt  the  courage  of  the  negro." 
Judging  from  the  pale  face,  trembling  hands,  and  the  subject,  it  was 
his  first  attempt  at  speaking  before  his  friends.  Mr.  "Cumnock's 
Elocution"  was  continually  interrupting  him,  saying,  "Break  it  up, 
break  it  up."  This  greatly  confused  him,  and  he  was  so  alarmed  at 
the  ringing  of  the  bell  that  he  stopped  short.  Horace  talked  about  the 
"golden  mean"  to  the  big,  fat  apple  stuffed  so  full  that  he  could  hardly 
roll.  The  apple  blushed,  but  had  to  listen  to  him.  Finally  Horace 
gave  the  apple  a  little  push,  and,  highly  offended,  it  crept  down  from 
the  plate,  hiding  under  the  table.  No  less  imposing  than  the  clock 
sat  the  tall  lamp  soliloquizing  in  the  centre  of  the  table.  However  bril- 
liant he  is  at  times,  just  then  he  was  in  low  spirits  because  he  had 
been  "turned  down"  the  night  before  for  not  going  to  bed  on  time, 
as  he  was  a  "wicked"  lamp,  and  had  been  "put  out"  several  times  for 

120 


smoking.     The  pen  and  pencils  were  at  sword's  points  with  each  other, 
quarreling,  as  usual. 

At  last  the  big  newspaper  began  to  speak.  His  audience  was 
quiet,  for  he  always  had  something  important  to  say.  The  lamp  began 
to  shade  his  eyes  to  see,  the  clock  stretched  out  his  hands  for  all  to 
listen;  the  pens  and  pencils  stopped  quarreling  and  stood  on  tip-toe 
lest  they  should  miss  a  word;  even  the  little  picture  above  the  table 
hung  in  suspense.  Surely,  the  paper  had  something  unusual  to  say. 
Slowly  he  began  in  a  low.  deep  voice,  "Northwestern,  five;  Chicago, 
nothing."  The  rest  of  his  words  were  drowned  by  shouts  of  "hooray! 
hooray!  hooray!"  The  pencil  with  his  wooden  leg  led  an  Indian  war 
dance  with  the  pen.  Following  was  the  clock  not  at  all  behind  time. 
The  lamp  was  all  ablaze  with  glee,  while  the  ink  bottle  turned  a 
somersault,  bumping  into  the  fat  apple,  who  rolled  with  laughter. 
It  was  some  time  before  the  paper  could  continue.  He  could  only 
say,  "If  you  don't  believe  it,  read  it  yourself."  The  poor,  dejected 
student  arose  from  his  seat  by  the  window,  and,  forgetting  his  para- 
graph, snatched  the  paper,  and  again  reviewed  the  game. — Josephine 
Gilmore. 


THE    BLIND    CHILD'S    ESCAPE. 

There  was  once  a  little  blind  child  who  lived  amid  all  the  splendor 
that  money  can  procure,  yet  he  loved  best  to  feel  the  warm  sunshine 
on  his  face,  to  touch  the  soft  blades  of  grass  with  his  hands,  and  to 
listen  to  the  many  sounds  that  fell  upon  his  ear.    From  afar,  he  heard 
wonderful  music,  but  he  did  not  know  that  it  came  from  the  birds 
in   the   forest;    or   perhaps,   on   a   still   day,   he   sometimes  heard   the 
brooklet,  if  it  was  in  its  gayest  mood.     He  wondered  much,  but  said 
little,    for  his  nurse   gave  impatient  answers  to   his  timid  questions. 
At  last,  one  warm  day,  he  slipped  away,   following  the  sound  of  the 
wonderful  music,  until  he  came  to  the  great  forest.     He  put  forth  his 
tiny  hands  and  felt  the  rough  tree-trunks;  his  feet  sank  into  the  soft 
loam,  and  the  small  bushes  brushed  his  face  as  he  passed  by.     He  sat 
listening  to  the  bewildering  harmonies  until  he  fell  asleep  upon  the 
moss.     The  great  wind,  resting  in  the  tree-tops,  looked  down  at  the 
lonely  child,  and  pitied  him.     The  little  stars  came  out  and   blinked 
to    keep   back   their   tears.     Presently    the    moon    came    sailing   by    in 
silent  majesty,  and  she,  too,  saw  the  little  dreamer,  and  asked  who 
he  was,  for  she  had  never  seen  him  before.     Then  a  gentle  breeze  told 
her  that  he  was  a  lonely  blind  child  whom  nobody  loved.     Then  she 
looked  again,  and  saw  how  fair  he  was,  for  lovely  dreams  had  driven 
the  sadness  from  his  face.     As  she  gazed,   her  heart  was  filled  with 
pity,  and  she  sent  down  a  thousand  beams  to  bring  the  child  up  to 
her.     The  little  breeze  flew  down  with  them,   and  gently  fanned  his 
face  that  he  might  not  awaken.    The  great  oaks  sighed,  and  the  leaves 
fluttered  in  farewell.     Then  the  moon  took  him  in  her  arms,  placing 


him  upon  a  fleecy  cloud,  and  they  were  wafted  away  to  the  westward. 
Par  below,  in  the  dark  forest,  lights  were  flitting  about  in  search 
of  the  blind  child;    but  they  never  found  him,  for  those  who  knew 
would  not  tell  what  they  had  seen  that  night. — Alma  S.  Carlson. 


THE  NEW  BELL. 

How  lonely  he  had  been  at  first,  away  from  all  his  companions, 
high  up  in  the  great  steeple!  But,  as  there  was  none  of  the  baser 
metal  in  him,  his  heart  was  brave  and  true,  and  he  rang  strong  and 
clear,  though  a  little  sadly  at  first,  to  herald  his  arrival.  Yet  there 
was  no  answering  peal.  After  he  had  become  quite  silent,  he  thought 
he  heard,  glad  and  clear,  though  far,  far  away,  a  chime  that  thrilled 
his  mighty  frame  as  he  listened;  but  soon  it  died  away  so  sweet  and 
faint  that  he  feared  his  imagination  had  played  him  false.  How 
could  he  know  that  his  proud  peal  had  drowned  the  timid  voice  of 
the  little  chime? 

Before  long,  he  became  friendly  with  the  swallows  that  nested 
above  him,  and  he  listened  as  they  chatted.  But  much  he  could  not 
understand,  for  their  little  conversations  were  of  fields  an!  trees  and 
flowers,  and  sometimes  of  pilfering  boys.  Often  a  breeze,  fluttering 
down  from  its  perch  on  a  cloudlet,  rested  a  moment  and  whispered  to 
him  of  strange  scenes;  still,  he  could  ask  no  questions,  for  the  breeze 
always  took  fright  at  his  loud  voice,  and  flew  away.  But  he  took  the 
most  comfort  when  his  friend,  the  sun,  arose.  Its  warm  beams 
caressed  him,  and  seemed  to  love  to  linger  about  him.  At  first,  when 
the  fragile,  golden  things  appeared,  he  almost  held  his  breath  lest  he 
should  frighten  them  away;  but  even  when  he  playfully  swung  the 
great  iron  clapper,  they  leaped  about  in  great  glee,  playing  hide-and- 
seek  round  his  gleaming  sides. 

When  the  sunbeams  were  gone,  the  stars  came  out,  one  by  one, 
and  twinkled  brightly  at  him.  He  could  not  help  wondering  if  they 
were  like  the  flowers  that  the  swallows  talked  of.  Yet  he  grew  to 
love  them,  though  so  cold  and  distant,  for  they  listened  calmly  when 
he  spoke  to  them. 

But  best  of  all,  he  loved,  on  a  dark  night,  to  awaken  to  the  crash 
of  mighty  thunder,  for  somehow,  somewhere,  in  the  forgotten  past,  a 
dim  recollection  of  it  lingered  with  him.  When  the  fiery  darts  of 
lightning  fell,  he  could  see  the  dark  thick  masses  of  cloud  piled  all 
around.  Then  how  he  strained  with  mighty  strength  to  send  forth 
his  voice  into  the  storm!  But  he  could  not.  Only  the  great  rain- 
drops stopped  to  comfort  him,  and  he  grew  calm  again. 

Yet  not  even  among  the  playful  sunbeams,  or  the  brilliant  stars, 
or  the  glorious  tempest,  had  he  forgotten  the  sweet  chime;  how  he 
had  listened,  hoping  against  hope,  to  hear  again  that  far-away,  gentle 
voice.     At  last  he  was  rewarded,  for  one  day  he  was  awakened  by  a 

122 


timid,  tender  call  from  the  distant  bell,  so  sweet,  so  sweet,  his  pulses 
throbbed  as  he  drank  in  the  dear  notes.  Ah!  she  was  hesitating  now, 
and  the  voice  grew  faint  in  maidenly  confusion,  and  then  died  away. 
But  listen!  what  peals  ring  out  from  above,  strong,  thrilling,  wonder- 
ful! In  a  far-away  steeple,  a  tiny  bell  throbs  with  joy.  Below,  people 
smile  and  say  to  each  other,  "Ah,  our  bell  has  the  right  sound  now." 
Poor  things,  how  could  they  know!— Alma  S.  Carlson. 


SINCE   GRANDMA   WENT   AWAY. 

The  dear  old  house  is  empty  now, 

Since   Grandma's    gone   away. 
The  door  is  closed,  the  window  barred; 

The  wind  moans  softly  all  the  day 
About  the  house  upon  the  hill, 

Since   Grandma   went  away. 

The  sparrows  chirp,  and  look  in  vain, 

Since  Grandma  went  away, 
For  the   feast  of  crumbs,   each  frosty  day, 

That  fell  so  free  from  a  loving  hand 
Stretched  forth  to  help,  and  soothe,  and  bless, 

Ere   Grandma  went  away. 

No  tender  face  beams  kindly  forth, 

Since   Grandma   went   away; 
No  gentle  hand  smooths  back  the  curls 
From  the  troubled  brow  of  childish  care, 
Or  lightens  the  load  by  words  of  love, 

Since  Grandma  went  away. 

Since   Grandma  went  away, 

The  nodding  rose  above  the  door 

That  saw,  when  none  were  nigh, 

A  pleading  face  toward  heaven  raised, 

Now  droops  in  sorrow,  left  alone, 

Since  Grandma  went  away. 

— Alma  S.  Carlson. 

THE  BROOM  PEDDLER. 

One  day,  in  answer  to  a  brisk  knock  at  the  door,  I  found  myself 
face-to-face  with  a  shambling,  portly  little  man  shouldering  a  stock 
of  brooms.  Giving  me  a  penetrating  glance,  he  immediately  settled 
upon  his  method  of  attack  by  glibly  reciting  the  merits  of  his  brooms. 
In  a  trice  I  saw  a  thousand  faults  in  the  faithful  broom  standing 
shamefacedly  in  the  corner  while  the  pert  newcomer's  bristled  with 
importance.     It  is  doubtful  to  what  lengths  the  peddler's  shrewdness 

123 


might  have  led  me  had  he  not,  fortunately,  changed  the  subject; — 
"Any  old  rubbers,  ma'am?"  Leaving  him  standing  pondering  on  his 
next  move,  I  brought  forth  rubbers  enough  to  pay  for  three  brooms. 
In  the  meantime,  he  had  espied  a  pair  of  boots  which  he  thought 
ought  to  be  added  to  the  collection.  But  finding  I  had  sense  enough 
to  refuse  that,  he  bravely  insisted  upon  ten  cents  into  the  bargain. 
By  this  time  my  sister  was  an  interested  listener,  but  this  last  demand 
was  loo  much  for  her  justice  loving  soul.  An  indignant  flush  mounted 
to  her  forehead,  and  there  was  wrath  in  her  voice  as  she  said  we 
\  ould  keep  the  rubbers  for  the  ragman.  Not  at  all  abashed,  our 
\  ouldbe  merchant,  with  the  quick  penetration  of  his  class,  seeing  tha. 
drift  of  affairs  and  still  keeping  his  covetous  eyes  upon  the  rubbers, 
vary  blandly  offered  a  broom  in  even  exchange.  Somewhat  mollified 
by  this,  we  parted  with  the  rubbers  and  took  the  broom.  Nor  was 
it  long  before  we  saw  how  completely  we  had  been  taken  in.  Since 
then,  at  our  house,  the  traveling  merchant,  encounters  a  supercilious 
fciare,  and  his  generous  offers  meet  with  a  cold  rebuff. — Alma  S. 
Carlson. 

THEIR   FIRST   QUARREL. 

1  lie  knife  blade  was  really  angry-  Although  always  noted  for 
timer,  he  had  never  lost  it  before  in  the  presenca  of  his  wife,  the 
stag  horn  handle.  She  was  such  a  transparent  little  creature  that 
she  could  not  conceal  her  apprehension  when  she  perceived  that  the 
blade  was  on  his  mettle.  To  his  first  cutting  remarks  she  made  no 
answer;  but,  as  his  tones  grew  sharper,  she  said  gently:  "My  dear 
husband!  calm  yourself.  This  display  of  temper  can  only  injure  you. 
What  is  the  matter?"  "You  can  ask  what  the  matter  is!  haven't  I 
been  on  edge  all  day,  and  didn't  I  narrowly  escape  a  grinding  from 
that  silly  boy?  My  lucky  slip  just  saved  me."  The  mild  handle  was 
roused.  "Yes,  when  out  of  my  control,  you  always  cut  and  slash.  I 
saw  how  you  pretended  to  slip  just  to  give  poor  Johnny  a  deep  gash 
in  his  finger.  And  I  was  glad  that  your  face  grew  red  as  you  turned 
frcm  your  wicked  deed.  You  try  to  cut  a  fine  figure,  but  I  know  that 
at  heart  you  are  cold  and  cruel.  As  this  is  our  first  quarrel,  let  me 
rem  nd  you  of  a  few  things.  Not  many  years  ago,  you  were  far 
beneath  my  notice,  and,  as  I  was  game,  you  never  dared  approach  me. 
S'rue  then  you  entered  the  world,  came  into  contact  with  its  refining 
influences,  and  acquired  the  polish  of  civilization.  Soon  I  lost  my 
high  position,  and,  after  your  numerous  relatives  had  brought  all 
their  influence  to  bear  upon  me,  I  became  your  wife;  and  what  a  life 
I  have  led,  chilled  by  your  coldness  or  frightened  by  your  temper! 
yet  here  I  must  remain  to  receive  you.  Look  at  these  wrinkles!  do 
you  know  what  brought  them?"  Without  deigning  a  reply,  he  turned 
his  back  to  her.  But  soon  he  began  thinking  of  the  many  knocks 
and  blows  the  frail  creature  had  endured  for  his  sake,  until  his  heart 
softened,  and,  stealing  his  arm  about  her,  while  her  head  found  its 

124 


accustomed   resting  place  upon  his  shoulder,  he  spoke,  soft   and    low 
words  intended  for  her  ear  alone.— Alma  S.  Carlson. 


WHAT   FIDO   SAW. 

The  Baby  and  I  had  fallen  asleep.     Hearing  a  rustling  and  a  tip- 
toeing about  the  room,  I  was  soon  wide-awake,  but,  when  I  knew  that 
my  mistress  was  there.  I   opened  only  one  eye,  when  she  came  near 
me,  to  let  her  know  that  I  was  still  on  guard.     Presently  all  became 
quiet  again,  and  I  slept  until  the  cooing  of  the  baby  awakened  me, 
and  there,  close  by  the  crib,  I  saw  an  impudent  one-eyed  fellow  star- 
ing at  Baby,  who  was  crowing  and  smiling  up  into  his  face;   but  the 
fellow   stood   stock-still,   and   never   took   his   eye   off  him.     Then   the 
Baby  showed  all  his  dimples  and  finally  managed  to  uncover  his  pink 
toes,  but  even  that  made  no  impression  upon  the  impertinent  fellow. 
All  the  while  I  was  keeping  my  eye  on  him,  ready  to  jump  if  he  should 
move,  for  I  didn't  like  his  looks,  and  thought  he  had  no  business  there. 
As  a  last   inducement  the  Baby  stretched  out   his  chubby  arms    but 
he  stood  as  unmoved  as  before.     Well,  that  was  too  much  for  me,  so 
I   began   to   bark.     Then   my   mistress  came   hurrying  into  the   room, 
followed  by  a  tall  man,  who  immediately  took  the  one-eyed  fellow  in 
hand.     He  jerked  him  back,  threw  a  cloth  over  his  staring  eye    and 
did  something  to  the  back  of  his  head.     Then  the  tall  man  seemed  to 
relent,  for,  while  my  mistress  held  up  the  Baby  in  front,  he  took  off 
the  cloth  and  let  the  poor  fellow  take  one  long  look  before  he  doubled 
him  up  and  carried  him  out  of  the  room.     1  couldn't  understand  what 
it  all  meant,  and  I  barked  so  furiously  that  my  mistress  put  me  out 
of  doors.     When  my  master  came  home  I  heard  her  tell  him  that  Mr. 

X had   been   there   with   his  camera,  and  that  he  had   taken   the 

baby's  picture.— Alma  S.  Carlson. 


WHAT   THE   ROBIN   SAID. 

Listen  now,  and   I  will  tell   you 
What  the  Robin  said  to  me, 

When   I    heard    him    singing,   calling, 
On   the    blossom-laden   tree. 

As  he  swung,  and  as  he  warbled 
Forth   his  song  of  pure  delight, 

"Life,"  he  said,  "is  filled  with  beauty, 
Clear,  the  summer  sky,  and  bright. 

"Sorrows   often   come   unbidden, 
Flee  from  them  while  yet  you  may. 

Live   and   love  amid   the   sunshine 
Of    this   happy,   golden   day. 
125 


"Blossoms   do   not  last   forever; 

They    will    wither,    they    will    fall. 
Gather  now  the   rosy  cluster; 

Here's  enough  for  one  and  all. 

"Take  away  a  fragrant  memory 

Of  this  orchard  old  and  dear, 
Very  soon  you'll  see  before  you 

Only    meadows   brown   and    sear." 

Then  the  Robin  warbled  softly 

Of  a  nest  so  neat  and   trim, 
And   a    dainty  little   madam 

Who  was  waiting  there  for  him. 

— Hester   E.   Benn. 

CONSOLATION. 

"Howdy,  Mrs.  Blake,  howdy.  I  heerd  you  was  sick,  so  I  thought 
I'd  run  in  a  spell.  How  are  you  to-day?  Not  feelin'  so  well?  You 
do  look  powerful  bad,  that's  a  fact.  Isn't  it  awful  how  much  deadly 
disease  there  is  about?  Jim  was  complainin'  of  rheumatiz  last  night, 
an'  I  just  told  him  we  oughter  be  mighty  thankful  nothin'  serious  was 
the  matter  with  us.  There  isn't  a  doctor  in  this  town  that  I'd  trust  to' 
tend  a  sick  cat.  You  have  Dr.  Brown?  In  my  opinion  he's  the  wust 
one  of  the  hull  lot.  He  hasn't  been  out  of  school  long  enough  to  know 
anything,  an'  he  thinks  he  knows  it  all.  Now  my  cousin  Sim  is  a 
doctor  that  is  a  doctor.  None  of  your  old  homothetic  ones.  But  he's 
in  California  now.  That's  where  your  daughter  is,  isn't  it?  Next 
time  you  write  tell  her  about  Sim,  so  when  she  gets  sick  she  can  have 
some  one  she  can  trust.  I  should  think  she'd  hate  to  be  so  far  from 
home  when  you're  not  well,  for  fear  something  might  happen.  She 
couldn't  even  git  here  in  time  for  the  fun'ral.  You  don't  think  you're 
dyin'  yet?  I  hope  not,  but  one  can  never  tell  about  sich  things.  My 
sister  Jane  wasn't  as  sick  as  you  be,  and  she  went  off  in  less  than  a 
week.  She  had  a  good  doctor,  too.  There's  that  hateful  old  Miss 
Martin  ^comin'  up  the  walk.  Don't  she  nearly  drive  you  distracted? 
She's  such  an  old  gossip.  I  never  could  endure  her,  so  I  guess  I  won't 
stay  no  longer.  Well,  I'm  glad  I  dropped  in,  for  you  look  quite  cherked 
up  now.  I  alius  like  company  when  I'm  sick,  'cause  I  don't  get  so 
down  in  the  mouth  then.  I'll  run  in  agin  to-morrow.  Good-day." — 
Hester  E.  Benn. 

WHAT  THE -RAIN-DROPS   SAY. 

Listen  to  the  rain-drops  fall, 
Pitter,  patter,  hear  them  call, 
"Stay  indoors  and  do  not  fret; 
Come  outside  and  brave  the  wet. 
126 


"'Stay  indoors  and  study  hard. 
Come  outside  with  no  regard 
For  the  weather  and  the  cold, 
Twill  not  hurt  a  youth  so  bold. 

"Do  not  think  we'll  do  you  harm; 
Come  outside  with  no  alarm, 
For  we're  not  so  very  big, 
And  you  need  not  'care  a  fig.' 

"That  to  class  you  now  must  go, 
If  your  lesson  well  you  know. 
If  you  know  it  not  at  all, 
Do  not  go  to  'Varsity  Hall, 

"For  your  prof,  will  mark  you  down, 
Look  on  you  with  many  a  frown. 
Better  far  to  stay  at  home, 
Never  more  from  there  to  roam." 

Listen  to  the  rain-drops  fall, 

Pitter,  patter,  hear  them  call, 

"Stay  indoors  and  do  not  fret; 

Come  outside  and  brave  the  wet."  —Hester  E.  Benn. 


"UNCLE  BILLY." 

Uncle  Billy  stepped  back  and  gazed  proudly  at  the  monument.  He 
thought  it  a  handsome  affair,  and  only  regretted  that  he  would  not  be 
able  to  see  it  completed,  for  now  one  date  was  lacking.  Clearing  his 
throat,  he  read  the  inscription  aloud,  "William  B.  Porter.     Born  Feb 

10th,    1830.      Died "   and   then   he   stopped,   thinking  that  before 

many  months  this  space,  too,  would  be  filled.  The  thought  did  not 
make  him  sad,  for  he  desired  only  one  thing  more,  and,  since  Decora- 
tion Day  was  so  near  at  hand,  that  surely  would  be  accomplished 
The  day  came,  and  Billy  marched  with  the  other  old  soldiers,  every 
moment  expecting  them  to  turn  aside  and  decorate  his  monument,  but 
the  leader,  who  was  Billy's  next-door  neighbor,  declared  that  "it  would 
be  foolish  to  decorate  a  live  man's  grave,"  and  so  had  placed  no  flag 
upon  the  spot.  When  Billy  realized  that  they  had  really  passed  it  by, 
he  left  the  ranks,  wildly  indignant.  "Wasn't  his  monument  there,  and 
hadn't  he  served  his  country  as  well  as  any  one  could  have  done? 
Why,  he  had  been  crippled  ever  since  the  war,  and  now,  now,  to  think 
that  they  would  put  no  flowers  upon  his  monument!  It  was  a  shame,  a 
burning  shame,  to  treat  an  old  soldier  like  him  in  such  a  way!  He 
would  never  forgive  them,  no,  never,  and  he  would  never  march  with 
them  again."     Billy  never  did  march  with  them  again,  but  the  next 

127 


year  the  old  soldiers  decorated  his  grave  far  more  handsomely  than 
that  of  any  of  the  others. — Hester  E.  Benn. 


TO  THE  ORIOLE. 

You  saucy  little   bird, 

You're  ever  on  the  wing; 
1  wonder  where  you  came  from, 

And  how  you  learned  to  sing. 

You  tilt  there  on  the  branches, 

And  seem  now  sad,  now  gay; 
You  trill  a  dainty  litle  song, 

Then  nod  and  fly  away. 

The  golden  gleams  of  gladness, 

Found  in  the  buttercup; 
The  pathos  of  the  violet, 

You  truly  often  sup. 

The  tinkling  of  the  drops 

Of  silvery  sounding  rain: 
The  mystic  music  of  the  brook, 

That  runs  to  meet  the  main; 

The  sorrows  of  the  heart; 

The  yearnings  of  the  soul — 
All   cadence  find    in   thy  sweet  song, 

Thou  pretty  oriole. 

Art  thou  a  pilgrim  spirit, 

Sent  here  on  earth  to  roam, 
To  sing  to  us  the  angels'  songs, 

Heard  in  thy  native  home? 

Night  stealeth  on  apace, 

And  I  must  leave  the  knoll, 
But  thou  sing  on  amid  the  leaves, 

Thou  spirit  oriole.  — M.  A.  Hinkel. 


UNCLE  ABNER'S  HAT. 

It  happened  this  way.  The  two  sons,  attending  an  Eastern  col- 
lege, having  decided  that  it  would  add  considerable  to  their  dignity  if 
their  farmer  father  would  "put  on  just  a  bit  more  style,"  purchased 
and  sent  to  the  old  man  a  shining  new  silk  hat.  When  the  box  con- 
taining the  gift  appeared,  old  Abner  took  off  his  steel-bowed  spectacles, 
wiped  them,  and  then  mopped  his  sunburned  face  with  his  turkey  red 

128 


handkerchief.  After  looking  at  the  strange  object  first  with  one  eye 
and  then  with  the  other,  just  as  a  chicken  examines  a  worm,  he  ex- 
claimed, "Wal,  what's  the  thing  fer,  anyway?"  "Why,  father,"  cried 
his  wife,  "that's  a  stove-pipe  hat,  just  the  kind  the  dead  deacon  wore." 
With  a  shrug  the  old  man  picked  up  the  curious  object  in  his  horny 
hands,  and  then,  upon  being  urged  by  his  wife,  consented  to  let  the 
"thing"  be  perched  upon  his  head.  For  a  moment  he  sat  looking  very 
guilty,  then  with  a  jerk  he  snatched  off  the  offending  object,  thrust  it 
into  its  box.  and  went  out  to  attend  to  the  calf.  This  was  Saturday. 
Sunday  he  was  to  drive  to  town,  and  after  church,  was  to  meet  his  two 
sons,  who  were  coming  home,  and  expected  him  to  wear  his  shining 
silk  hat.  Sad  and  solemn  did  old  Abner  look  as  he  slowly  walked  to- 
wards the  great  red  barn  Sunday  morning.  He  seemed  absent-minded; 
he  did  not  pat  Sal  on  the  neck,  nor  stroke  Mol's  glossy  coat,  as  was  his 
custom.  He  led  the  horses  slowly  up  to  the  house,  and  then  thought- 
fully pumped  a  basin  full  of  water  from  the  wheezy  well.  As  he  delib- 
erately and  seriously  wiped  his  hands  on  the  long  towel  hanging  on  a 
huge  nail  by  the  door,  "new  courage  arose  in  his  soul"  and  he  spake  to 
his  beaming  wife,  saying,  "Cynthia,  I  can't  wear  that  hat."  "Why, 
Abner,  of  course  you  can;  why,  what  'ud  the  dear  boys  say,  now  that 
they  went  and  got  it  for  you?  Of  course  you'll  wear  it."  And  hasten- 
ing to  bring  the  unwelcome  object,  she  placed  it  upon  her  crestfallen 
spouse's  head  with  the  words,  "There  now,  you  do  look  for  all  the  world 
like  the  poor  dead  deacon."  Poor  Abner,  going  sheepishly  down  the 
gravel  walk,  followed  by  his  beaming,  portly  wife,  looked  very  much 
like  a  naughty  school-boy  being  driven  out  for  a  thrashing.  His  green- 
ish coat  hung  dejectedly  upon  his  stooping  shoulders,  his  shining  trous- 
ers, to-day,  seemed  to  shrink  in  horror  from  contact  with  the  bare 
earth.  Only  his  great  raw-hide  boots  looked  full  of  contentment  and 
satisfaction.  Approaching  the  team,  Abner  scudded  around  the  back 
of  the  carriage,  hastily  placed  his  new  hat  upon  the  seat,  and  then 
walked  boldly  up  to  the  horses  to  unhitch  them.  As  he  drove  out  of 
the  yard,  the  little  bantam  rooster  flew  upon  a  post  and  seemed  to  laugh 
at  him;  as  he  dashed  by  the  lower  pasture  the  cows  seemed  to  stare, 
while  the  young  colts  seemed  to  prance  about  mocking  him.  They 
reached  the  church.  People  whispered;  the  younger  men  giggled,  the 
religious  old  men  looked  sad.  Even  the  little  white  meeting-house 
with  its  open  windows  looked  shocked.  Abner  crept  sheepishly  to  his 
pew,  trying  his  best  to  hide  the  new  hat.  The  pastor  spoke  on  "Van- 
ity" and  seemed  to  address  all  his  remarks  to  the  trembling  Abner.  As 
the  words,  "Yea,  brethren,  vanity  is  worse  than  deceit,  worse  than 
theft,"  fell  upon  the  ears  of  the  congregation,  a  bright  gleam  of  hope 
shot  across  the  guilty  man's  face.  Abner  clutched  his  hat,  thrust  it 
as  far  as  possible  under  his  coat,  whispered  to  his  wife  that  he  thought 
he  had  forgotten  to  tie  the  horses,  and  then  tip-toed  as  quietly  as  pos- 
sible out  of  church.     He  crept  to  the  old  well  at  the  side  of  the  meet- 

L29 


ing-house,  looked  cautiously  about,  seemed  at  first  to  search  for  some- 
thing he  could  not  find,  then  went  to  his  team,  took  out  the  weight, 
returned  to  the  well,  pulled  up  a  board  very  carefully,  and  suddenly 
there  was  heard  a  heavy  thump  and  splash.     Then  all  was  silence. 

Abner's  two  sons  and  all  the  people  of  the  neighborhood  are  still 
wondering  who  stole  the  old  man's  hat.  The  worthy  parson  spoke  the 
next  Sunday  about  a  sheep  that  was  going_astray,  led  by  the  glittering 
shams  of  the  world,  telling  how  the  weak  one  had  been  brought  back  to 
the  fold  before  he  had  wandered  far,  and  closing  with  the  solemn 
words,  "God  works  in  a  mysterious  way  his  wonders  to  perform."— 
M.  E.  Hinkel. 


A  STORY  OF  THE  CLOUDS. 

For  many  days  all  the  earth  seemed  sullen.  The  little  leaves  clung 
dejectedly  to  the  outstretched  arms  of  their  mother-tree.  The  clouds, 
hanging  about  the  heavens,  grew  pale  in  idleness.  The  indifferent  sun 
went  to  sleep  under  the  fleecy  gray  coverlets  during  the  day,  and  at 
night  the  young  moon  had  not  courage  enough  to  try  to  come  out. 
Dame  Nature  was,  indeed,  in  a  pessimistic  mood  when  the  storm-king 
dashed  by  on  the  back  of  the  north-east  wind,  driving  the  languid  clouds 
before  him,  causing  the  trees  to  whisper  excitedly,  and  leaving  the  very 
heavens  staring  at  him  in  blue-eyed  amazement.  Whence  he  or  his 
furious  charger  came,  or  whither  they  were  bound,  no  one  ever  knew. 
But  in  a  few  moments  they  had  swept  the  sky  clear  of  all  discontent, 
leaving  just  one  cloud,  black  with  passion,  in  angry  pursuit  of  a  tiny, 
fragile  cloudlet.  For  a  long  time  this  great  cloud  had  been  very  ugly, 
growling  at  everything  that  passed  his  way.  Now,  in  his  fury,  he  had 
hurled  a  lightning  spear  at  the  trembling  cloudlet  by  his  side.  At 
first  the  wounded,  weeping  cloudlet  stood  meekly  still,  and  then  she 
moved  slowly  away.  Now  the  cloud's  brow  grew  dark  when  he  saw 
that  she  was  going  to  leave  him.  Enraged,  he  hurled  another  shaft,  and 
then  pursued  her  fleeing  form.  Seeing  that  all  her  friends  had  fol- 
lowed the  storm-king,  and  that  she  had  no  one  to  whom  she  could  cling 
for  protection,  the  trembling  cloudlet  was  beginning  to  grow  very  pale, 
when  she  suddenly  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  departing  god  of  light. 

She  had  often  heard  of  the  divine  beauty  of  the  god  of  morn  and 
sunset,  but  had  never  yet  beheld  him  in  all  his  glory.  Gathering  her 
flying  robes  about  her,  and  speeding  towards  him,  she  soon  overtook 
his  flaming  chariot,  and  then  stood  awed  in  the  presence  of  her  pro- 
tector, the  beautiful  Phoebus-Apollo,  who  looked  upon  her  with  such  a 
kindly,  radiant  smile  that  she  forgot  her  fears  and  flight,  and  in  glow- 
ing loveliness  reflecting  his  every  change  of  feature  she  waited  on  his 
will.  Then  the  cloud  drew  nigh;  he  seemed  repentant  now,  now  sad, 
but  as  he  gently  crept  nearer  to  the  beautiful  cloudlet  he  appeared  to 
grow  happier  and  more  and  more  like  the  god  he  looked  upon.  At  last 
the  cloud  and  cloudlet  stood  side  by  side;  no  longer  in  anger  or  strife, 

i;;o 


but  in  divine  harmony,  and  beholding  glories  of  tin  other  world  they 
"trembling,  passed  in  beauty  out  of  sight." 

Then  the  dainty  leaves,   who  had   been   watching  the  pursuit  in 

breathless  wonder,  seeing  that  the  pretty  cloudlet  and  the  glorified 
cloud  were  reunited  and  happy,  trembled,  and  shed  little  joyous  tear- 
drops which  fell  upon  the  earth  below,  while  the  tiny  streams,  be- 
neath the  trees,  began  to  dimple  with  satisfaction  and  merriment. 
Then,  after  a  gentle  zephyr  had  crept  among  the  trees  and  told  them 
all  about  the  quarrel  of  the  clouds  and  their  meeting  with  the  beau- 
tiful sun-god,  and  after  all  the  leaves  had  whispered  and  wondered,  a 
•'holy  calm.*'  a  '"deep  hush"  fell  over  all,  and  nature  closed  her  eyes  in 
sweetest  sleep. — M.  E.  Hinkel. 


FOR  PEARL  IS  A  GIRL. 

To  climb  a  tree,  oh,  great  delight. 
When  no  dread  dragon  is  in  sight! 
To  scale  the  wooden  wind-mill  high, 
Then  give  a  jump  and  try  to  fly; 
To  leap  across  a  purling  stream. 
Sometimes   falling  with  a  scream;  — 
I  tell  thee  true,  she  dares  not  do. 
For   Pearl   is  a  girl. 

To  load  the  hay  upon  the  rack; 
To    ride    a    prancing    horse    bare-back; 
To  wrhistle  like  a  whip-poor-will; 
To  laugh  and  shout  and  sing  until 
The  very  woods  take  up  the  note 
Thus   falling   from    her   merry   throat; 
I  tell  thee  true,  she  dares  not  do. 
For   Pearl   is  a  girl. 

A  fleecy,  patted  ball   of  snow 
At  any  passing  man  to  throw; 
Tops  and  marbles  oft  to  "swipe"; 
To  make  a  great,  big,  ugly  pipe; 
To  make  a  pet  of  a  slippery  snake; 
To  steal  the  company's  jelly-cake;  — 
I  tell  thee  true,  she  dares  not  do, 
For   Pearl   is  a  girl. 

To  practice  lessons  with  such  care; 
To  play  with  dolls  with  curly  hair; 
To  never  say  one  angry  word; 
To  speak  so  low  and  yet  be  heard; 
To  sacrifice  herself  when  grown; 
131 


Be  always  cheerful,  never  moan; —  ■ 
I  tell  thee  true.,  she  must  so  do, 

For  Pearl  is  a  girl.  — M.  E.  Hinkel. 


COLONEL. 


The  young  people  always  enjoyed  attending  the  first  revival  meet: 
ings  of  the  season,  for  Colonel  and  his  dog  were  sure  to  be  there. 
Colonel  was  a  queer  old  man,  with  his  coarse,  red  wig  suspended  over 
his  left  ear  by  a  greasy  black  shoe-string  knotted  beneath  his  fat  and 
flabby  chin.  As  a  Southern  soldier,  he  had  lost  his  right  leg,  and  had 
received,  after  the  war,  the  title  of  "Colonel."  The  commanding  old 
fellow  had  a  special  mania  for  being  converted.  In  these  days  of 
peace,  it  supplied  for  him  the  excitement  and  the  happiness  that  a  safe 
escape  from  a  Yankee  regiment  afforded  him  during  the  war.  As  he 
appears,  followed  by  his  skulking  dog,  with  its  tail  between  its  legs  and 
its  ears  drooping  in  a  cowardly  manner,  and  then,  as  he  thumps 
proudly  up  the  narrow  aisle  of  the  little  white  church,  that  set  of  ever- 
expectant,  giggling,  wriggling  urchins,  always  perched  on  the  front  row 
of  seats,  bounce  about,  and  almost  lose  their  balance  in  hopeful  joy. 
The  parson's  face  grows  pale  when  he  sees  his  imposing  rival  approach. 
A  look  of  unsaintly  determination  settles  upon  his  features.  Either 
the  Colonel  must  be  thwarted  in  his  purpose,  or  else  the  meeting  must 
be  given  up  to  his  thirtieth  conversion.  The  poor,  lean  minister  does 
bravely,  bobbing,  like  a  shuttle,  from  one  side  of  the  platform  to  the 
other,  frantically  imploring  the  people  not  to  let  things  "lag."  But 
Colonel  has  come  prepared  to  speak,  and  speak  he  must.  For  is  he  not 
like  the  Ancient  Mariner  upon  whom, 

"At  an  uncertain  hour 

That  agony  returns; 
And   till   his   ghastly   tale   is   told 

His  heart  within  him  burns"? 

After  clearing  his  throat,  "hem,  hum,"  dropping  his  hickory  stick, 
stretching  his  left  leg,  and  describing  a  huge  semi-circle  with  his  right, 
he  impressively  arises  and  bides  his  time.  Expectant  giggles  now 
burst  from  the  almost  disappointed  children.  Eliza  Philips  regards, 
the  Colonel  with  an  old-maid  glare;  the  portly  matron  in  the  side  aisle 
grabs  right  and  left  after  her  bobbing  tow-headed  sons;  the  prim 
young  miss  looks  disgusted,  while  the  young  men  prepare  for  fun. 
With  his  tiny,  pig-like  eyes  tightly  shut,  his  uplifted  face  shining  like 
the  full  red  moon,  Colonel  refights  the  Civil  War;  charges  against  the 
enemies'  camp  with  his  wooden  leg;  eloquently  resuffers  the  pangs 
of  unrequited  love;  reattends  the  wedding  of  the  son  of  a  friend,  tell- 
ing how  he  had  thought  to  please  the  bride  and  groom  by  appearing 
on   the   scene   clad    in   his   military   uniform,   with   his   gun    upon   his 

132 


shoulder;  laughs  again  at  the  remembrance  of  their  dismay  and  ter 
ror,  till  he  slightly  loses  his  balance  and  treads  upon  the  matted  tail  of 
his  scraggly-looking  dog,  and  then  he  closes  with  a  touching  account 
of  the  history  of  this  faithful  canine.  Occasionally,  the  limp  parson, 
who  had  helplessly  subsided  into  a  chair,  gasps  and  tries  to  stem  the 
flood  of  recollections.  The  Colonel  only  increases  the  volume  of  his 
voice.  The  dog,  as  if  reminded  of  the  old  call  of  the  war  trumpet, 
slowly  rises,  stretches  his  lean  self,  fixes  his  one  good  eye  upon  the 
trembling  curate,  and  gives  a  dismal  howl,  at  the  end  of  which,  with  a 
shiver,  he  falls  into  a  ragged  heap.  Now  Colonel  is  happy.  His  heart 
has  been  laid  bare,  and  so  has  his  bald  head.  His  very  cranium,  re- 
flecting the  flickering  light  of  the  kerosene  lamp,  seems  to  sparkle  from 
pure  joy,  while  his  three  gray  hairs  stand  rigidly  erect  like  sentinels 
surveying  the  vanquished  foe,  the  deserted  field,  and  the  departing 
wig,  which  is  now  huddled  about  the  Colonel's  fat  neck.  The  parson 
and  his  good  people  have  fled. — M.  E.  Hinkel. 


THE  JEWELS  OF  THE  BRIDE. 

Silas  was  going  to  his  wedding.  There  was  no  doubt  but  that 
something  extraordinary  was  about  to  happen,  judging  by  his  fat, 
glowing  face,  and  his  flurried  manner.  As  he  puffed  and  waddled 
up  the  gravel  walk  to  the  little  white  church  with  its  green  shutters, 
the  little  church  whose  tiny  black  door  had  been  thrown  wide  open  to 
receive  him,  Silas  reminded  one  of  a  grizzly  bear  walking  upon  its 
hind  legs.  A  huge,  good-natured,  easy-going  fellow  never  believing  in 
doing  to-day  what  could  be  put  off  till  to-morrow,  he  had  never  before 
been  guilty  of  hurry,  not  even  in  his  proposal,  postponing  it  from  year 
to  year  until,  at  last,  Tabitha,  fearing  that  this  too  was  going  to  be  a 
case  of  what  she  termed  that  "new-fangled  platonic  friendship,"  sim- 
ply commanded  him  to  meet  her  before  the  parson  within  a  week's 
time.  Silas,  looking  calmly  about  and  coming  to  the  conclusion  that 
there  were  at  present  no  other  fair  fields  in  which  he  could  exercise 
his  grizzly  charms,  agreed  to  her  proposition,  went  to  the  city  a  few 
days  later  to  purchase  the  ring,  and  returned  the  same  evening  with  a 
long,  narrow  box  and  a  fat,  mysterious  smile. 

Tabitha  had  a  fondness  for  jewelry,  perhaps  because  she  never 
possessed  any  but  the  large  round  brooch,  which,  with  its  many-col- 
ored and  strangely-set  stones,  made  one  think  that  he  was  looking 
into  a  kaleidoscope,  and  Silas,  who  liked  to  have  everybody  about  him 
mirror  his  own  contented  nature,  felt  very  happy  as  he  now  and  then 
pressed  his  fat  left  hand  upon  his  breast  pocket  to  see  if  the  box  were 
safe,  for*  he  knew  that  he  was  about  to  delight  the  heart  of  his  lean 
lady  not  alone  in  her  love  of  man,  but  in  her  more  passionate  love  of 
jewelry,  and,  in  his  eagerness  to  lay  at  the  feet  or  rather  in  the  hands 
of  her  who  was  to  be  no  longer  an  old-maid,  his  dozen  of  dazzling  red, 


blue,  and  green  stoned  rings  purchased  in  the  city,   Silas  forgot  his 

habitual  slowness The  parson,  whose  puckered  lips  and 

up-drawn  eyes  always  made  him  look  as  if  he  were  about  to  swallow  a 
mouthful  of  vinegar,  stood  holding  the  black  leather,  gilt-edged  book, 
questioning  the  tall  pole-like  Tabitha  as  to  whether  she  would  have 
the  fat  swain  "for  better  or  for  worse."  She  seemed  to  give  her  entire 
attention  to  the  imposing  ceremony,  while  Silas,  occasionally  forget- 
ting the  well-drilled  answers,  appeared,  by  his  uneasy  twisting  and 
by  his  look  of  eager  expectation,  to  have  something  of  more  importance 
than  his  wedding  upon  his  mind.  His  eyes,  ordinarily  looking  like  the 
green  pulp  of  squeezed  grapes,  almost  seemed  to  grow  bright,  as  the  mo- 
ment for  the  presentation  of  the  ring  drew  near.  Then,  at  last,  when 
the  momentous  pause  occurred,  he  gave  a  true  grizzly  grunt  of  satisfac- 
tion and  glee,  drawing  from  his  pocket  the  long,  mysterious  box.  The 
people  in  the  back  of  the  little  church  stood  upon  tiptoe  to  see  what 
was  the  cause  of  the  excitement;  the  woman  who  always  looked  as  if 
she  were  just  recovering  from  a  violent  fit  of  coughing,  forgot  to  wipe 
her  eyes,  while  the  freckled-faced  lad,  whose  large  mouth  was  invari- 
ably wide  open,  in  the  anxiety  to  see  what  the  box  contained,  snapped 
his  rows  of  sharp  teeth  together,  forgetting  that  his  tongue  was  in  the 
way.  The  proud  moment  of  Silas's  life  had  come.  The  little  speech, 
"With  these  rings  I  take  thee  for  my  wedded  wife"  had  been  forgotten. 
He  could  think  of  nothing  but  the  happy  surprise  he  had  in  the  box 
for  his  bride.  Thrusting  the  long  case  into  her  hands,  and  feeling  that 
she  would  rejoice  in  his  bargain,  he  cried  triumphantly,  "There,  Ta- 
bitha, I  got  you  a  whole  dozen  for  a  dollar."  Tabitha  did  not  faint. 
For  a  moment  she  stood  debating  the  question  to  be  a  bride  or  not  to 
be.  But  as  she  never  believed  in  doing  anything  by  halves,  she  quickly 
decided  not  to  renounce  Silas  and  all  his  rings,  "dazzling  stones,  disal- 
lowed indeed  of  men,"  but  chosen  of  Silas  and  gaudy.  She  had  agreed 
to  take  him  for  worse  if  need  be,  and  here  was  her  first  opportunity. 
Many  rings  there  were,  but  one  was  chosen.  The  ceremony  continued, 
Silas  rejoicing  in  the  jewels  of  his  bride. — Martha  B.  Hinkel. 


QUAINT  AUBURN. 

The  most  important  part  of  Auburn  is  the  court-yard.  Oil  the 
south,  east,  and  west  sides  of  this  public  square  are  the  prim  white 
houses,  with  their  vine-clad  porches  and  their  neat  picket  fences,  all 
reminding  one  of  trim  little  maidens  in  starched  Sunday  dresses. 
These  little  cottages  with  their  two  front  windows  really  seem  to  stare 
in  child-like  simplicity  and  surprise  at  the  ugly,  red  court-house, 
perched  in  the  middle  of  the  yard.  On  Main  street,  which  is^north  of 
this  public  square,  one  finds  the  largest  building  in  town, — that  of 
blind  Sam  Butler,  who  will  sell  anything  from  a  new  '95  model  bicycle 
down  to  a  dish-pan,  or  from  a  half-yard  of  green  cotton  ribbon  to  a 

134 


quart  of  molasses.  Next  to  Sam's  store,  with  its  one  fly-specked  win- 
dow, is  Brown's  place,  where  one  can  order  cither  thrashing-machines 
or  coffins.  Beside  that  frame  structure,  and  leaning  against  it  for  sup- 
port, is  the  next  and  last  place  of  business  in  the  hamlet, — the  a 
village  smithy.  In  front  of  this  and  near  the  town  pump  is  al^ 
seen  a  tall,  lanky  person,  clad  in  blue-jeans.  This  man  either  lies  upon 
the  sidewalk,  with  his  head  against  a  half-chewed  hitching-post  and 
his  body  kinked,  so  that  it  looks  like  a  crooked  letter  Z,  or  else  he  shs 
dangling  his  long,  lean  legs  over  the  edge  of  the  walk.  Do  not  censure 
him.  He  has  nothing  else  to  do.  He  is  the  Mayor.  Near  him.  and 
usually  tilted  back  in  a  weather-beaten  chair,  is  a  little,  "dried-up," 
lame  edd  fellow,  the  one  policeman  of  the  town.  Just  now  a  woman, 
who  has  lately  moved  into  this  village,  complains  to  this  guardian  of 
the  peace  that  some  mischievous  urchins  have  been  throwing  stones, 
trying  to  kill  her  cat.  The  policeman  drawls,  as  he  jerks  forward  in 
his  chair  and  pokes  with  his  hickory  stick  at  the  shaggy  black  dog, 
dozing  at  his  side,  "Wall,  you  bring  the  fellers  up  here  to  me,  and  find 
out  their  names,  and  I'll  arrest  them  for  you."  With  this  comforting 
answer  he  rises  with  a  yawn,  hobbles  over  to  the  Mayor,  lying  on  his 
back,  and  after  exchanging  a  few  words  about  the  "proverbial  rein- 
sterm"  he  shuffles  in  to  watch  the  smith  shoe  the  doctor's  "new  horse." 

The  inhabitants  of  Auburn  are  firmly  convinced  of  the  value  and 
justice  of  the  division  of  labor,  and  they  never  believe  in  humoring 
the  whims  or  indisposition  of  any  person  or  thing.  At  each  of  the  four 
corners  of  the  public  square  is  suspended  a  kerosene  lamp.  In  the 
court-house  is  hung  a  huge  calendar  on  which  the  days,  or  rather 
nights,  are  marked  when  the  moon  shines.  Never,  not  even  when  the 
wind  howls  furiously  and  the  trees  bend  low.  nor  when  the  blinding 
lightning  flashes  over  the  pale  white  houses,  or  the  roaring  thunder 
shakes  the  rickety  smithy,  nor  when  the  rain  and  snow  beat  madly 
against  the  lonely  court-house,  "never,  oh,  never,"  will  the  inhabitants 
agree  to  let  these  kerosene  Tamps  be  lighted,  if  it  is  the  duty  of  the 
moon  to  illuminate  the  town  that  night. 

The  most  advantageous  time  to  visit  this  little  hamlet  is  on  a 
summer's  evening,  about  seven  o'clock,  for  then  everybody  from  the 
trembling  grandma,  whose  wrinkled  face  smiles  gently  from  her  tiny 
black  bonnet  with  its  bunch  of  violets,  down  to  the  wee  infant  in  long 
dresses,  trimmed  deeply  Avith  home-made  lace,  everybody — the  bashful, 
sun-burned  youths  and  the  giggling  maidens — issues  from  his  re- 
spective home,  and  parades  round  and  round  the  public  square,  until 
the  very  stars  seem  to  grow  dizzy  and  begin  to  blink, 

Then  "they  homeward  all  take  off  their  several  way, 
And  the  youngling  cottagers  return  to  rest." 
Thus  "these  people,   free   from   care,  serene  and   gay, 
Pass  all  their   mild,   untroubled   hours  away." 

— M.   E.   Hinkel. 

135 


WHO  KNOWS?     WHO  CARES? 

The  tall  trees  with  their  thin  coats  of  ice  shivered  as  the  mad- 
dened wind  in  wanton  fury  hurled  the  helpless  snow-flakes  round  and 
round  their  heads  or  dashed  them  against  the  cold  tombstones  at  their 
feet.  The  weird  and  sullen  silence  in  the  graveyard  was  broken  only 
by  the  howling  of  the  frustrated  gale.  Night  had  come.  To  the  lone 
black  figure  tottering  away  from  a  newly-made  mound,  a  mound  not 
yet  covered  by  the  cold  white  shroud,  night  had  indeed  come.  Nobody 
seemed  to  think  that  the  poor  woman  who  entered  the  car  mid  a 
gust  of  snow,  the  trembling  woman  with  a  thin,  faded  shawl  drawn 
tightly  about  her  bent  shoulders,  and  with  a  coarse  black  veil  hiding 
her  tear-stained  face,  the  humble  little  woman,  who  shrank  timidly 
into  the  farthest  corner  of  the  seat,  as  if  to  take  up  as  little  space  as 
possible, — nobody  seemed  to  think  that  she  had  a  heart,  and  nobody 
seemed  to  care.  Just  for  a  moment  two  wee,  curly-haired  lassies 
turned  about,  and  with  hands  primly  folded  in  their  tiny  laps,  sat  star- 
ing at  the  shrinking  figure  opposite  them,  and  then,  puckering  their 
rosy  mouths  and  trying  to  frown,  they  twisted  around  again  with  the 
whispered  exclamation,  "What  a  funny  old  lady!"  and  immediately 
resumed  their  interesting  occupation  of  scraping  the  sparkling  frost 
from  the  whitened  window-panes.  Nobody  cared.  Who  saw  the  red, 
rough  hand  with  the  stunted  nails  and  swollen  veins?  Who  saw  this 
toil-stained  hand  hastily  dash  away  the  obstinate  tears?  Who  cared? 
Who  knew  that  she  had  left  the  graveyard,  and  that  she  was  mourn- 
ing for — was  it  parent,  husband,  or  child?  Who  could  know?  Who 
saw  the  thin  blue  lips  move  as  if  in  prayer?  Who  heard  the  stifled, 
agonized  cry,  "Is  there  a  God?     And  does  he  care?" — M.  E.  Hinkel. 


THE  MOON  SHOULD  NOT  GET  FULL. 

It  is  indeed  a  sad  state  of  affairs  when  one  whose  "virgin  mod- 
esty" has  been  lauded  by  the  seers  of  all  climes — the  poets,  "who  see 
through  life  and  death," — when  such  a  one  weakly  yields  to  the  fiery 
influence  of  the  sun  and  gets  full.  Men  undoubtedly  thought,  when 
they  praised  her  in  past  ages,  that  she  was  young,  and  would  soon 
change  her  fickle  ways,  and  that  a  little  encouragement  would  help 
her,  but  this  has  not  proved  to  be  the  case.  We  might  be  persuaded 
to  forgive  her  did  she  dissipate  but  once  or  twice  in  a  life  time,  but 
when  she  regularly  indulges  twelve  or  thirteen  times  a  year  we  despair 
of  reform.  By  her  unmaidenly  act  she  will  eventually  ruin  her  repu- 
tation. When  full,  she  is  bold  and  rude,  forgetting  her  proper  sphere, 
throwing  back  the  mysterious,  dark  veil  which,  like  that  of  Orient 
women,  was  meant  to  enhance  her  beauty  and  to  hide  her  full  virgin 
loveliness  from  the  midnight  world,  in  unmaidenly  reserve  throwing 
her  veil  aside,  she  discloses  her  face,  now  either  blowzed  and  red  or 
wan  and  thin,  and  then  rudely  stares  down  upon  lonely  lake-side  stroll- 

136 


ers.  In  her  full  state,  she  also  gives  way  to  pride  and  selfishness, 
coldly  glaring  about  her,  seeking  to  outshine  and  dazzle  her  humble, 
blinking  brothers  and  sisters,  while  it  is  her  Christian  duty,  as  a  heav- 
enly body  •'in  honor  to  prefer"  her  brother.  Other  results  Of  this  mis- 
erable habit  of  hers  arc  her  growing  indolence  and  recklessness.  She 
never  arises  tube  from  the  same  place,  thus  showing  her  increasing 
vagrant  tendencies.  Getting  up  at  all  hours,  like  man  in  a  similar 
state  she  is  never  able  exactly  to  retrace  her  path  of  the  night  before. 
It  may  be  said  that  "all  things  human  change," that  man  therefore  likes 
variety,  and  that  the  moon  pleases  him  by  her  varying  moods.  This  is 
not  the  case.  Man  admires  the  moon  for  her  loveliness,  he  enjoys 
looking  at  her.  for  it  is  indeed  true  that  "a  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy 
forever."  but  nevertheless  he  softly  sighs  as  he  slowly  shakes  his  head 
and  murmurs,  "Ah,  she  is  divine  but  fickle."  Lastly,  as  a  member  of 
the  celestial  sphere,  the  moon,  by  her  action,  sets  a  very  bad  example 
for  her  "poor,  earth-born  companions,"  for,  seeing  a  heavenly  body 
which  ought  to  be  a  paragon  of  perfection,  seeing  such  a  heavenly  body 
"full."  will  not  man  conclude  that  he,  too,  has  a  right  to  be  in  a  similar 
state?  Therefore  since  it  encourages  her  in  her  indolence  and  in  her 
vagaries;  since  it  is  not  maidenly;  since  it  will  eventually  ruin  her 
reputation  as  a  modest  virgin;  since  it  does  not  coincide  with  man's 
idea  of  womanly  perfection;  and  above  all,  since,  as  a  dweller  in  the 
heavenly  realms,  she  ought  to  be  a  model  for  mortals,  I  maintain  that 
the  moon  should  not  get  full.— M.  E.  Hinkel. 


WILL. 

The  most  striking  feature  of  Will  is  his  enormous  shock  of  yellow 
hair,  which  looks  like  a  wheat  field  struck  by  a  tornado.  Underneath 
this  tangled  mass  dance  two  very  dark  blue  eyes  full  of  fun  and  mis- 
chief. Will's  mouth  is  huge,  and  when  opened  to  its  fullest  extent,  dis- 
closes twenty-eight  large,  white  teeth.  His  queer,  box-shaped  nose, 
with  its  swarm  of  freckles,  reminds  one  of  a  hive  with  hovering  bees. 
Will,  a  well  developed  lad  of  seventeen,  is  a  city  boy  transplanted  into  a 
tiny  country  village.  He  is  of  a  genial  nature,  patting  and  praising 
the  horses  of  the  various  farmers,  tossing  the  little  children  up  into 
the  air,  and  setting  them  clown  with  a  "huge  smack,"  while  the  beam- 
ing mammas  stand  and  watch  him  in  shining  enjoyment;  eulogizing 
the  "wonderful  butter"  and  "ambrosial  angels'  food"  of  certain 
old  maids  and  leading  prayer  meeting  for  the  pious  parson,  who  tot- 
ters about  in  rusty  lankiness.  Everybody  likes  him,  and  when  he 
approaches  a  crowd  of  people,  all  smile  and  give  him  a  hearty  welcome. 
Will  has  perfect  control  over  the  muscles  of  his  face,  and,  when  about 
to  play  some  huge  joke,  wears  the  solemn  expression  of  a  pall-bearer. 
His  well-brushed  clothes  and  neatly  kept  though  large  hands  tell  that 
he  is  rather  careful.     Naturally  Will  dislikes  work,  but  for  this  very 

137 


reason  believes  in  "doing  things  up  in  a  hurry  and  doing  them  well  S3 
that  father  won't  make  me  do  them  over  again."  When  through  with 
the  day's  labor,  he  enjoys  sitting  under  a  large  persimmon-tree  with 
three  or  four  "pickaninnies"  dangling  from  the  branches  overhead, 
several  smaller  boys  gamboling  upon  the  grass,  innumerable  wide-eyed 
and  wide-mouthed  black  and  white  lassies,  with  rag  dolls  and  a  dog 
or  two,  listening  to  his  marvelous  stories  about  the  wonderful  city, 
where  the  cars  run  over  people  every  day,  where  policemen  keep  par- 
ents from  punishing  their'  children,  and  where  candy  and  ice-cream 
may  be  obtained  on  any  street.  In  the  eyes  of  the  new  maidens, 
especially,  King  Arthur  and  his  Knights  of  the  Round  Table  fade  into 
insignificance  when  compared  with  Will  and  his  followers.  As  this 
mischievous,  fun-loving  lad  finishes  his  astonishing  stories,  the  amazed 
children  leave  him  with  puzzled  faces,  and  in  whispers  wonder  how  the 
great  city  can  possibly  exist  without  their  hero,  Will. — M.  E.  Hinkel. 


SKETCHES  AT  "THE  ELMS."     NO.   1. 

With  a  welcoming  squeak  the  door  swings  open,  and  we  are  re- 
ceived with  good  old  New  York  cordiality  by  "Aunt  Mollie," — every 
one  calls  her  "aunt" — who  by  this  time  is  somewhat  flustrated  at  the 
thought  of  entertaining  company.  A  maiden  lady  of  seventy,  she  is 
short  of  stature,  with  her  once  black  hair  now  besprinkled  with  gray, 
with  deep-set,  dreamy  blue  eyes,  and  with  cheeks  and  mouth  hollowed 
by  loss  of  teeth.  But  any  lines  of  ugliness  in  features  are  erased  by  a 
homely  benignity  of  countenance,  which,  together  with  the  deep  lines 
of  care  traced  in  her  forehead,  bespeaks  a  life  of  patient  and  loving 
service  in  the  household.  Yes,  Aunt  Mollie  had  been  a  faithful  daugh- 
ter. All  of  her  sisters  had  left  "the  Elms"  for  homes  of  their  own,  but 
it  had  fallen  to  her  lot  to  keep  the  old  nest  in  order.  Putting  away 
every  treasured  ambition  of  her  girlhood,  without  complaint  she  had 
become  the  only  support  of  the  declining  years  of  an  aged  mother. 
Forgotten  by  the  world,  for  she  seldom  left  the  home,  she  had  minis- 
tered to  the  many  childish  whims  of  her  charge  night  and  day,  year 
in  and  year  out.  Finally,  one  bleak  November  day,  that  mother  of 
ninety-six  had  left  her  alone.  With  sighs  of  relief  the  neighbors  had 
said,  "At  last  her  great  burden  is  removed."  But,  after  the  funeral 
Aunt  Mollie  had  returned  to  an  empty  house  and  to  a  life  left  vacant. 
Yes,  vacant,  for  had  she  not  finished  her  task  of  love?  Beyond  this 
could  there  be  any  pleasure  in  staying?  Yet  she  lives  on,  and  this 
balmy  May  morning  she  unconsciously  is  teaching  us  a  lesson.  Leav- 
ing us  to  our  own  enjoyment  on  the  porch,  she  soon  appears  in  the 
front  yard,  tottering  along  with  a  pail  of  water  and  a  dipper.  Now 
with  scrupulous  care  she  pours  a  little  here  and  there  on  the  "posy 
beds,"  just  as  her  mother  used  to  do  in  former  years,  and  a  gingham 
sun-bonnet  hides  from  the  world  the  silent  devotion  of  her  face. — 
H.   H.   Frost. 

138 


SKETCHES  AT  "THE   ELMS."     NO.  2. 

We  cannot  be  contented  to  sit  upon  the  porch  very  long  with  such 
surroundings.  A  spacious  yard  lies  before  us,  whose  green  coat  shows 
the  curved,  weary  cutting  of  the  scythe.  No  lawn-mower  or  roller 
Every  hummock  and  hollow  is  left  just  as  nature  pleased;  and, 
as  sve  start  down  across  the  grass,  we  are  nearly  tripped  by  these 
irregularities,  as  they  playfully  remind  us  that  we  are  no  longer  in  the 
city  with  its  monotonous  conventionalities.  Here  and  there  the  green 
is  mottled  with  spreading  patches  of  violets,  and  awfully  we  hesitate 
to  step  upon  their  royal  purple  carpet.  But,  if  nature  has  been  lavish 
in  her  gifts  at  our  feet,  even  more  she  fills  us  with  reverent  delight  at 
what  she  has  placed  above  us.  Six  great  elms  tower  nearly  one  hun- 
dred feet  above  us,  like  valiant  sentinels  keeping  watch  over  the  little 
farm-house  beneath  them.  Their  huge  trunks  challenge  the  might  of 
the  "'Northwester,"  and  with  knotted  muscles  their  great  roots  reach 
every  way  far  into  the  soil  to  obtain  a  sure  hold.  In  graceful  curves 
they  extend  their  branches  to  the  dizzy  heights  and  seem  never  to  tire 
of  holding  mottled  shade  over  you.  But  whence  comes  that  joyful 
note?  Ah!  far  up  yonder,  suspended  from  the  little  finger  of  a  great 
limb,  swaying  gracefully  with  the  fragrant  breezes,  is  the  hanging  nest 
of  the  oriole.  No  wonder  his  heart  overflows  with  rapture,  as,  sitting 
on  a  neighboring  branch,  he  surveys  the  beauty  and  peaceful  comfort 
of  his  summer  home!  Now  a  passing  breeze,  catching  up  the  fragrance 
of  violet,  grass,  and  orchard,  and  mixing  it  with  the  sweet  strains  of 
the  oriole  and  robin,  flaunts  the  happy  combination  in  our  faces  with 
hoydenish  glee. — H.  H.  Frost. 


SKETCHES  AT  "THE  ELMS."     NO.  3. 

But  if  the  front  yard  with  its  rolling  lawn  and  its  lofty  elms  is 
attractive,  the  space  back  of  the  house  is  no  less  interesting.  The 
square  plot,  bounded  on  the  north  and  east  by  the  wiiigs  of  the  house, 
has  for  its  center-piece  a  large  "flower-bed,"  so  called,  which,  however, 
is  composed  almost  entirely  of  shrubs  and  trees.  At  one  side  a  large 
pear  tree  in  full  bloom  vies  in  fragrance  with  the  peonies  and  daffodils. 
From  near  the  center  of  the  bed  a  tall,  pole-like  tree  arises  with  no 
branches  except  its  long,  palm-like  leaves  near  the  top.  This  is  a 
peculiar  specimen  of  nature  with  as  strange  a  name,  "the  Devil's  Walk- 
ing-Stick." A  few  feet  from  the  back  wing  of  the  house  stands  an  old 
shed,  weather-beaten  and  sinking  into  the  ground  with  its  heavy  con- 
tents, being  filled  with  the  summer's  wood,  which  wafts  toward  you 
the  fragrance  of  beech  and  maple  forests.  Nearly  in  the  corner, 
formed  by  the  ell  of  the  house,  stands  the  old  pump.  We  work  its 
handle  up  and  down  until  our  faces  are  red,  when,  with  a  mixture  of 
squeaks,  groans,  and  much  wrheezing,  it  finally  repays  our  exertion  with 

139 


a  refreshing  drink.  Near  by  is  the  cool,  inviting  cellar-door,  sending 
forth  the  savory  odors  of  a  well-supplied  larder  and  of  a  neatly-kept 
creamery.  Hanging  from  a  low  limb  of  a  near  apple  tree  is  a  clean 
white  cloth  containing  a  cottage  cheese  in  process  of  preparation  for 
the  evening  meal.  Beneath  a  large  bush  at  the  edge  of  the  flower  bed 
a  haughty  "Plymouth  Rock"  with  enthusiastic  ado  is  reproving  the 
feminine  members  of  his  flock  for  their  timidity  in  robbing  the  cats' 
dish,  while  pussy  lies  in  the  sun  near  by  in  sleepy  indifference.  But 
farther  from  the  house  is  possibly  the  most  attractive  spot  at  "the 
Elms."  Several  large  evergreen  trees,  planted  in  the  form  of  a  cres- 
cent, make  a  screen  to  the  south  and  west,  while  to  the  east  stands  one 
of  the  large  graceful  elms.  In  this  cool  arbor,  lying  in  a  hammock, 
with  the  song  of  birds  in  the  branches  above — now  and  then  seconded 
by  the  contented,  jerky  song  of  some  happy  old  hen,  with  the  hum  of 
bees  filling  the  air,  and  enveloped  in  the  fragrance  of  orchards  and 
forests,  you  look  up  into  the  blue  shimmering  through  the  tree  tops, 
and  for  the  time  being  utterly  forget  that  earth  is  anything  but  peace 
and  happiness. — H.  H.  Frost. 


SKETCHES  AT   "THE  ELMS."     NO.  4. 

The  cupola  is  a  room  ten  feet  square  with  two  windows  in  each 
side.     After  opening  the  windows  it  is  hard  for  one  to  say  which  is 
the  more  enjoyable,  the  refreshing  breezes  redolent  of  apple-blossoms 
or  the  bird's-eye  view  of  the  surrounding  country  spread  like  a  map 
about  us.     The  first  to  attract  our  attention  are  the  vast  stretches  of 
old  Ontario,  visible  through  cuts  in  the  forest  to  the  northeast,  north, 
and  northwest.     Her  blue  waters  lie  quietly  sunning  themselves,  as  if 
resting  from  the  surging  storms  of  spring.     Several  miles  out  a  large 
propeller  with  heavy  puff  is  moving  slowly  along  with  several  schoon- 
ers in  tow.     Just  above  the  watery  horizon  we  notice  a  dark  blue  strip 
of  haze.    With  the  aid  of  a  field-glass  we  find  that  we  are  viewing  the 
Highlands  of  Canada  some  sixty  miles  away.     Now  to  the  north-north- 
west we  plainly  see  Scarbrow  Heights,  perpendicular  crags  on  the  Can- 
adian shore  rising  some  three  hundred  feet  above  the  waves.     To  the 
west  blooming  orchards  reach  as  far  as  eye  can  see  on  either  side  of 
the  beautiful  "Lake  Road,"  and  checkered  in  with  these  are  fields  of 
wheat,  oats  and  barley,  with  here  and  there  small  fields  of  corn.     To 
the   southwest   stately   forests  of  beech,   maple   and   elm   stand   as   in 
marshal  array  with  their  bright  new  spring  uniforms.     To  the  south 
the  first  thing  to  catch  the  eye  about  two  miles  away  is  a  neat  brick 
church   with   lofty   spire.     Beyond   this   the   attention   is   drawn   some 
twelve  miles  distant  to  the  purple  forest-crowned   "Mountain  Ridge." 
Near  at  hand  we  have  the  farm  itself,  mapped  out  before  us.     A  lane 
of  generous  width  and  well  lined  with  cattle  paths  cuts  the  one  hun- 
dred and  fifty  acres  into  two  equal  parts  by  passing  from  the  barn- 

140 


yard  to  the  woods  at  the  back  end  of  the  place.  The  two  parts  are 
checked  off  into  fields  of  about  fifteen  acres  each,  with  hedges  of  locust, 
evergreen,  and  osage-orange.  To  the  southeast  extensive  forests  again 
shut  off  the  more  distant  view.  Looking  east  the  Lake  Road  may  be 
followed  about  three  miles  by  its  line  of  farm-houses,  barns,  and 
orchards,  until  the  eye  rests  upon  the  little  old  country  village  of 
Somerset,  or  rather  upon  its  clump  of  shade  trees  crowned  by  two  loi  ? 
church  spires.  Over  all  the  surroundings  a  peaceful  country  cal  1 
holds  Bway.  No  clatter  of  hoofs,  wheels  and  paving-stones.  No  rail- 
roads with  their  noisy  nuisances.  No  deafening  steamer-whistles  com- 
mingled with  ringing  bells  and  the  excitement  of  swinging  bridges. 
No.  here   is  rest.— H.   H.  Frost. 

SKETCHES  AT  "THE  ELMS."'     NO.  5. 

The  sun  i;  =lowly  sinking  below  the  horizon,  tracing  a  fiery  patt 
across  the  heavirg  bosom  of  old  Ontario.  The  elms  and  maples  have 
cea-ed  struggl  Eg  with  the  parching  southwester.  and  now  their  weary 
leaves  hang  ir  Ump  festoons  of  green  mingled  with  the  golden  sunset. 
The  wind-mill  wheel,  which  has  kept  up  a  dizzy  whirl  all  day,  has 
ceased  its  rhv  hmlc  clicking  and  its  monotonous  squeaking,  and  now 
shares  in  the  evening  quiet.  The  cows  with  long  expirations  lie  down 
in  the  barn-yard  and  sleepily  chew  their  cuds.  The  horses,  dusty  and 
tired  with  the  dav's  labor,  having  been  turned  into  the  pasture,  have 
taken  their  evening  roll  and  are  now  peacefully  feeding.  The  song 
and  cackle  of  "Chickendom"  have  ceased  and  its  quiet  is  disturbed  only 
by  the  occasional  lullaby  croonings  of  its  mayor.  The  evening  milking 
being  done  the  two  hired  men  have  stretched  their  weary  bodies  at  full 
length  upon  the  lawn  and,  looking  up  into  the  tinted  heavens  above, 
have  forgotten  their  prosaic  routine  of  labor.  From  under  the  front 
stone  steps  has  come  the  weather  prophet  of  "the  Elms,"  a  king  of 
the  toad  tribe.  Quietly  hopping  along  the  stone  walk,  now  and  then 
he  stops  to  survey  with  bulging  eyes  the  prospects  for  rain.  On  the 
topmost  limb  of  the  tallest  elm  robin  redbreast  sits  pouring  forth  his 
evening  song  of  praise.  Uncle  Jim  and  Aunt  Mollie  sit  quietly  upon 
the  porch  watching  the  shifting  scenery  of  the  sunset,  while  the  deep 
wrinkles  in  their  faces  disappear  before  its  magic,  golden  light.  Labor 
is  over  and  forgotten.  The  promised  rest  has  come.  The  quiet  is  per- 
fect, for  it  is  broken  only  by  the  song  of  contentment  and  peace.— 

H.  H.  Frost.  

"SANDY"  CARMICHAEL. 

"Sandy"   Carmichel  always  had   the  breath  of  the  heathen  about 

bim,  excepting  after  he  had  fallen  in  with  an  old  acquaintance,  when 

more  than  likely  to  be  perfumed  with  the  best  "auld     Scotch 

wills'  cy  that  the  market  afforded.     At  such  a  time  he  was  apt  to  be- 

141 


come  m&re  jovial  than  usual,  and  forgetting  that  he  was  Scotch,  he 
would  loose  his  tongue.  "Sandy'.'  was  proud  of  his  race,  and,  although 
his  early  education  had  been  neglected,  he  could  talk  quite  intelligently 
upon  any  phase  of  Scottish  history.  In  the  town  in  which  I  first  met 
"Sandy"  is  a  small  library,  upon  whose  dusty  shelves  are  less  than  a 
thousand  well-worn  books.  "Sandy's"  thumb  has  marked  many  of 
them,  and  the  librarian  told  me  that,  after  a  prolonged  spree,  he  would 
come  to  the  library,  secure  an  armful  of  books,  and  then  be  lost  to  the 
world  for  days  at  a  time. 

"Sandy's"  wife  was  a  large  woman  and  the  terror  of  his  drinking 
hours.  Every  time  the  saloon  door  opened  "Sandy"  involuntarily 
trembled,  firmly  convinced  that  the  terror  had  come.  After  several 
false  alarms,  she  would  come,  and  as  soon  as  he  could  control  his  quak- 
ing limbs,  "Sandy"  would  accompany  her  lamblike  to  the  slaughter, 
his  piteous  bleats  always  being  the  signal  for  a  goodly  amount  of  gos- 
sip among  the  neighbors,  some  of  whom  favored  the  wife,  while  others 
upheld  the  husband,  who,  they  said,  had  been  driven  to  drink  by  the 
"old  hen." 

"Sandy"  had  been  drinking  several  years,  and  all  hooe  of 
reform  had  vanished.  However,  one  New  Year's  morning,  with  a  com- 
pany of  friends,  he  kept  the  old  Scotch  custom  of  "first-footing."  They 
had  wandered  from  one  house  to  another,  giving  the  greetings  of  the 
New  Year  and  receiving  in  return  a  liberal  reward  of  whiskey.  They 
had  begun  the  carousal  soon  after  midnight  with  the  tear-compelling 
strain,  "Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot,"  and  after  completing 
their  tour  they  staggered  into  their  old  habitat,  the  saloon,  singing  the 
flagrant  prevarication,  "We  areni  foo."  "Sandy"  was  now  thoroughly 
roused.  His  ancestors  had  been  heroic  in  battle;  so  would  he  be  if 
only  opportunity  offered.  His  companions  jostled  him.  He  deemed 
this  an  insult  that  no  one  boasting  the  blood  of  a  Wallace  would  tol- 
erate, and,  throwing  off  his  coat,  he  challenged  any  one  of  his  weight 
to  fight  him.  Although  angry,  "Sandy"  was  still  sensible,  and  he  was 
politic  enough  to  announce  his  weight  a  full  stone  under  what  it  really 
was.  One  of  his  comrades,  more  sober  than  the  others,  stripped  off 
his  coat,  and  advanced  to  meet  "Sandy"  in  the  improvised  ring.  There 
was  the  sound  of  crunching  snow  on  the  door-step.  The  latch  clicked, 
and  the  terror  blew  in.  "Sandy's"  nerve  failed  him.  He  was  com- 
pletely cowed,  and  the  only  answer  he  could  give  his  deriding  mates  as 
he  passed  out  to  the  slaughter  was,  "She's  no  in  ma  class." — A.  W. 
Campbell. 


"GRANDMA"  TENNY. 

In  her  home  town  Mrs.  Tenny  exercises  a  sovereignty  not  hers  by 
hereditary  right  nor  by  formal  election.  If  she  were  a  man,  she  would 
be  the  village  patriarch,  but  since  she  is  a  woman,  she  is  known  only 

142 


as  "Grandma"  Tenny.     She  assumed  her  pres  d     po  Ition  of  authorit/ 

years  ago  when  the  town  was  small,  and  she  has  retained  a  firm  grasp 
upon  the  scepter  until  the  present  time.  "Grandma"  has  pronounced 
Flews  regarding  the  sphere  of  woman,  and  resolutely  maintains  that 
the  gentle  sex  is  as  needful  to  the  state  as  to  the  home.  She  herself 
has  occupied  the  highest  office  in  the  gift  of  her  fellow-citizens,  an  1 
there  are  people  still  living  who  will  tell  you  of  the  exciting  timss 
when  she  was  a  member  of  the  board  of  education.  She  soon  recog- 
nized her  limitations  in  the  realm  of  politics,  but,  still  yearning  for  a 
life  of  activity,  she  became  a  member  of  the  church.  Here  she  found 
the  men  few  and  silent,  and  she  ruled  with  a  rod  of  iron.  First,  the 
choir  disbanded,  then  the  Epworth  League  revolted,  and  finally  the 
minister,  realizing  that  his  lines  had  not  fallen  in  pleasant  places,  left 
for  other  pastures  where  he  could  tend  his  flock  without  fear  of  cen- 
sorship. "Grandma"  continues  to  wield  the  scepter  over  a  long-suf- 
fering, superannuated  minister,  too  weak  to  rebel,  who  longs  for  the 
return  of  the  days  when  men,  in  church  as  in  state,  were  in  the  ma- 
jority.— A.  W.  Campbell. 

"NO  MORE." 

No  more  the  craven  critic  roasts 

Our  coach  and  football  team; 
No  more  the  glaring  headline  speaks 

Or'  Stagg's  men  as  "the  cream." 

No  more  our  color  hides  its  head, 

Nor   peeps  behind    its   fringe, 
For  now  upon  Chicago's  field. 

The  purple's  left  its  tinge. 

Nr»  more  the  small  boy  on  the  street 

Looks  up  in  joyous  glee, 
And  lifts  his  voice  to  pipe  the  words, 

"Northwestern  is  N.   G." 

No  more  our  gallant  football  men, 

With  visage  grim  and  set, 
Sit  down  to  eat  their  common  fare, 

Since  Kelly  lost  his  bet. 

No   more  the   co-ed. 's  gentle   voice 

Is  heard  our  woes  to  tell; 
No  mora  she  claps  her  dainty  hands; 

She.  too,  has  learned  to  yell. 

No  more  proud  Speed  his  warriors  praise. 

And  Henry,  too,  is  still; 
No  more  Stagg  speaks  of  "practice  games", 

For  he  has  drunk  his  fill.  — A.  W.  Campbell. 

143;        ; 


A  "BUFFALO." 

I  started  out  the  other  morn 

To  walk  to  college  hall, 
When  some  one  darted  up  behind, 

And  then  began  to  bawl,  ** 

"Are  you  a  Buffalo?" 

Though  startled  by  the  suddenness 

With  which  the  question  came, 
I  plucked  up  courage  to  reply 

That  I  was  surely  tame. 

"No  jesting  matter  this,"  quoth  he, 

And  savage  was  his  mien, 
"As  you'll  find  out  without  a  doubt 

Before  to-night,  I  ween." 

Then  arm  in  arm,  we  strode  along, 

And  he  told  all  the  plan 
By  which  the  noble  order  grew 

To  ever  widening  span. 

"Signals  and  grips  and  passwords,  too, 

We  have  them  all,"  said  he, 
"And  they  will  cost  you  but  a  mite 

If  you  trust  yourself  to  me." 

I  gave  myself  into  his  hands, 

And  also  the  small  fee, 
But  I  will  not  to  any  tell 

How  much  he  got  from  me. — A.  W.  Campbell. 


"TEDDY.' 


Brave    "Teddy"   took    his   gun   and   went 

A-hunting  in  the  West, 
And  every  weary  soul  grew  glad; 

We  thought  we'd   have   a  rest. 
Our  tired  eyes  once  more  were  bright, 

And  each  one  thanked  his  Maker; 
But,  oh,  hard  luck,  "Ted"  also  took 

Five  reams  of  essay  paper. 

From  break  of  dawn  till  darkness  comes, 

The    forest's   in   a  bustle; 
The  mountain  lion's  rapid  gait 

Betokens  "Teddy's"  hustle. 
And  now  in  Colorado's  woods, 
144 


The  dead  game  proves  the  fighter; 
While  high  ahove  the  gun's  report 
Is  heard  the  dread  typewriter. 

In  Colorado's  sunny  clime, 

On   Cuba's  blood-red   soil, 
Our  "Teddy"  placed  his  ideal  high, 

A  life  of  strenuous  toil. 
And  whether  the  game  be  boodler  bold 

Or  the  wily  mountain  sheep; 
His  quarry  "on  the  jump,"  we  pray 

That  "Ted"  may  ever  keep.      — A.  W.  Campbell. 


THE  LAST  CHANCE. 

We  had  wandered  far  from  the  crowded  thoroughfare  of  the  city, 
and  we  were  now  on  its  very  edge.  We  had  passed  the  tenement  dis- 
trict and  the  suburbs  nearer  town,  and  the  unsettled  prairie  lay  before 
us.  Behind  us,  the  platform  of  the  elevated  railway  rose  like  a  spectre 
in  the  dusk  of  the  fading  day,  while  farther  out  was  the  electric  road, 
along  which  sped  the  trolley  car.  Here  and  there  were  rude  bleach- 
ers, dried  and  warped  by  the  heat  of  the  previous  summer,  and  near 
them  parts  of  the  prairie  from  which  the  grass  had  been  worn  by  the 
tramp  of  many  feet.  There  was  no  sound  save  that  made  by  the 
occasional  trolley  car.  At  first  we  could  see  no  sign  of  any  habitation, 
but  a  closer  survey  revealed  smoke,  issuing  from  a  chimney,  almost  a 
mile  away.  This  smoke  became  our  goal.  Over  muddy  roads,  and 
through  pastures  thick  with  cockle-burrs  that  stuck  wherever  their 
prickly  fingers  touched,  we  trudged,  and  finally  reached  the  hovel  from 
which  the  smoke  issued.  It  was  a  peculiar  building,  a  combination 
dwelling-house,  hotel  and  saloon.  In  the  muddy  yard  surrounding  the 
house  were  dwarfed  chickens  and  scrawny,  peevish  pigs,  while  nosing 
among  the  musty  oats  in  the  barn  was  a  horse  that  would  outpoint 
Rosinante.  The  building  was  a  two-story  structure,  and  had  long  since 
ceased  to  show  signs  of  paint.  A  gilded  beer-sign,  the  only  bright  spot 
about  the  place,  hung  from  one  corner,  while  on  a  board  across  the 
front  of  the  building,  we  read  the  significant  words,  "The  Last  Chance." 
—A.  W.  Campbell.  

A  REMEDY. 

I   shouldn't  be   surprised,  should   you? 

If  some  cold  morning  soon, 
When  the  town  is  deep  in  silence, 

And  a  cloud  is  o'er  the  moon. 

I  say  I  shouldn't  be  surprised, 
If  some  day  when  we  wake, 
145 


We  find  the  gay  reporter 
Firm  fastened  to  a  stake. 

And  then  I  shouldn't  be  surprised, 

If  some  bright  moonlight  night 
We'd  stretch  him  on  some  lamp-post  tall; 

'Twould  only  serve  him  right. 

I  don't  believe  you'd  be  surprised, 

If  some  day  wandering  'round, 
You'd  see  a  figure  covered  o'er 

With  feathers  many  a  pound. 

The  days  of  whipping-posts  have  gone, 

Of  stocks  we  now  have  none, 
But  we  can  still  the  horse-whip  wield, 

Yea,   every   mother's   son. 

And  if  these  efforts  all  should  fail, 

We'd  lead  him  to  the  lake, 
And  dip  him  in,  his  pipe  to  choke, 

For  old   Northwestern's  sake. — A.   W.  Campbell. 


A  HYMN. 


A  deep  hush  came  over  the  worshipers  assembled  in  the  Willow- 
ville  church  when  the  pastor  announced  that  a  duet  would  be  sung 
by  the  two  strangers,  sitting  with  the  members  of  the  choir.  Looks 
of  curious  expectation  flitted  across  the  faces  of  the  audience;  the 
old  tenor,  whose  cracked  voice  was  the  subject  of  much  facetious 
comment,  screwed  his  face  an  octave  higher,  and,  with  true  profes- 
sional dignity,  scowled  upon  the  intruders;  the  prim  soprano,  decked 
out  in  a  wonderful  creation  of  lace  and  ribbon,  daintily  drew  her 
skirts  together  and  leaned  back  in  critical  repose;  "Grandma"  Tenny 
hastily  thrust  a  mint  drop  into  her  mouth  and  settled  back  in  the 
front  pew,  at  the  same  time  administering  a  smart  cuff  to  her  grand- 
son "Johnny,"  who  was  fumbling  the  Bible  and  who  resented  the 
attack,  saying  tearfully  that  he  was  trying  to  find  Ezra. 

There  was  much  clearing  of  throats  and  blowing  of  noses  before 
the  song  was  begun,  old  Deacon  Cornhill  making  a  noise  that  sounded 
like  the  "last  trump"  on  a  quiet  morning.  Then  the  people  settled 
down:     the  choir  to  criticise  and  the  others  to  enjoy. 

The  singers  were  college  men,  and  as  such  they  had  an  especial 
claim  upon  Widow  Brown,  whose  second  cousin  had  attended  an  agri- 
cultural school  in  Minnesota.  The  widow  leaned  expectantly  forward, 
an  expansive  smile  beaming  from  her  ruddy  face.  Near  her  sat  Mrs. 
Jones,  whose  only  son  had  left  home  several  years  before,  never  to 
return.     The  organist  played  the  first  stanza  of  "Where  Is  My  Wan- 

146 


dering  Boy  To-night."  while  the  singers  arranged  their  music.  Mrs. 
Jones's  fingers  convulsively  gripped  the  seat.  Then  the  song  hegan. 
It  is  safe  to  say  that  never  before  had  such  music  been  heard  in  Wil- 
lowville.  The  voices  were  perfectly  blended,  and  as  they  brought  out 
the  pathetic  beauty  of  the  old  hymn,  every  mind  in  that  little  church 
was  turned  to  some  wanderer,  now  a  stranger  to  the  old  home.  Out 
across  the  gap  of  years,  gray-haired  men  were  posted  until  they  became 
young  again,  and  at  the  old  home  played,  by  the  sides  of  their  mothers. 
Young  men,  who  before  the  service  had  been  gay,  became  thoughtful, 
and  as  the  last  strains  of  the  hymn  died  away,  a  sigh  came  from  Mrs. 
Jones's  pew,  a  sigh  that  was  almost  smothered  by  the  deep  breathing 
of  the  others. — A.  W.  Campbell. 


"JOCKO." 

"Jocko"  was  a  Mexican  burro  that  had  lived  the  routine  life  of 
his  family  until  he  was  released  from  the  chain-gang  that  toiled  up 
the  long  slopes  of  the  Sierras,  and  was  transferred  to  central  Illinois. 
He  was  very  old,  for  the  hair  about  his  temples  was  gray,  and  the 
rings  on  his  hoofs  were  so  many  that  they  scarcely  could  be  counted. 
His  teeth,  however,  were  in  a  fair  state  of  preservation  when  he 
arrived  from  the  West,  but  he  was  unused  to  the  luxurious  fare 
of  the  East,  and  his  molars  soon  decayed.  He  sadly  missed  the 
garbage  pile  and  the  sage  brush,  while  the  tomato-can,  with  which 
in  former  days  he  had  been  accustomed  to  conclude  his  repast,  was 
erased  from  the  menu. 

He  did  not  take  graciously  to  the  ways  of  civilized  life.  When  he 
was  first  led  into  his  stall,  he  tried  to  turn  around  in  it,  instead  of 
burying  his  nose  in  the  oat-box.  Oats  were  nauseating  to  him.  He 
preferred  leather,  and  the  first  time  that  he  was  released  from  the 
halter,  he  consumed  the  top  of  a  brand  new  buggy.  Buffalo  robes 
were  his  delight.  They  reminded  him  of  his  native  heath,  and  they 
soon  became  a  part  of  his  regular  diet.  In  the  course  of  time,  he 
substituted  nails  and  the  sheet  iron  straps  that  lined  his  feed-box 
for  the  prohibited  tomato-can. 

"Jocko"  had  carried  many  a  burden  during  his  previous  existence 
among  the  mountains,  and  he  was  easily  broken  to  the  saddle.  But 
he  never  became  perfectly  tractable  in  a  cart,  for  he  was  accustomed 
to  follow  and  could  not  be  forced  to  lead.  Then,  again,  he  had  the  evil 
habit  of  running  through  every  opening  large  enough  to  admit  him, 
entirely  forgetful  of  the  cart  that  followed,  so  that  he  was  not  a 
success  as  a  roadster. 

"Jocko"  lived  many  years  in  a  little  village  in  this  State;  now 
beloved  by  the  people  with  whose  children  he  played,  now  hated  by 
these  same  people,  whose  slumbers  he  disturbed  with  his  unearthly 
bray.  No  doubt  he  would  have  lived  on  and  on  indefinitely  had  he 
not    while    ruminating   abstractedly    stepped    in    front   of    an    expr 

147 


train.  No  stone  marks  the  spot  where  he  died,  but  he  still  lives 
in  the  hearts  of  those  who  as  children  romped  with  him. — A.  W. 
Campbell. 

AT  EVENING. 

The  evening  meal  is  finished  in  the  comfortable  New  England 
farm-house,  and  John,  a  fourteen-year-old  lad,  is  started  on  his  accus- 
tomed path,  winding  over  the  little  hill  to  the  pasture  where  the 
cows  are  feeding.  He  is  weary  with  his  day's  work,  and  plods  along 
slowly,  dreamily,  humming  some  familiar  tune,  and  feeling  that  the 
sun  sympathizes  with  him  as  it  grows  dimmer,  dimmer,  and  finally 
fades  away  behind  the  mountain.  At  last,  John  reaches  the  pasture 
and  finds  the  three  cows  waiting,  ready  for  their  homeward  journey. 
The  bars  of  the  old  rickety  rail-fence  are  lowered,  and  the  cows  pass 
through  on  down  the  dusty  road.  Tall  grass  is  growing  on  either 
side,  and  occasionally  wild  roses,  filling  the  air  with  sweetest  perfume, 
shyly  peep  through  the  weeds,  or  wind  about  the  posts  of  the  fence. 
The  air  becomes  cooler,  and  night  with  all  of  her  accompaniments 
is  ushered  into  the  quiet  valley.  The  frogs  begin  their  evening  song, 
and  one  by  one  the  stars  begin  to  quiver  and  blink  in  the  heavens, 
as  if  they  were  just  awaking  from  a  long  peaceful  sleep.  Finally  the 
moon  rises  and  casts  its  pale  ghostly  light  over  the  lonely  scene. 
The  cows  move  lazily  onward,  stopping  now  and  then  to  get  a  last 
bit  of  grass  by  the  roadside  and  then  plodding  on  in  their  path, 
keeping  time  to  the  metallic  ring  of  the  cow-bell.  John  follows 
slowly  behind,  now  cracking  a  lash  to  urge  on  the  cows,  now  stopping 
to  catch  a  fire-fly  as  it  blazes  past  him.  Soon  the  dim  light  in  the 
distance  tells  him  that  he  is  nearing  home.  He  follows  it  uncon- 
sciously, absorbed  in  all  that  is  around  him, — gives  the  cows  a  final 
touch  of  the  whip,  and  drags  himself  slowly  and  dreamily  onward. — 
Edith  Richardson. 


UNCLE  AMOS. 

Uncle  Amos,  as  he  is  called  by  everyone,  is  a  native  of  New  York 
and  a  typical  "down-easterner."  He  is  a  very  plain  old  man,  but  has 
a  big  heart  and  makes  friends  wherever  he  goes.  He  owns  a  few 
acres  of  land  and  a  little  house  where  he  lives  alone,  supporting 
himself  by  the  few  vegetables  that  he  raises  in  his  garden.  In  spite 
of  the  fact  that  he  is  eighty-two  years  of  age,  one  may  find  him 
in  his  garden  at  five  o'clock  every  morning  in  the  summer.  After 
the  weeding  and  watering  is  properly  done,  he  fills  his  little  two- 
wheeled  cart  with  vegetables  and  starts  out  to  visit  his  usual  cus- 
tomers. It  is  an  interesting  sight  to  see  Uncle  Amos,  followed  by  his 
dog,  pushing  his  cart  and  whistling  merrily  as  he  plods  along.  As  the 
old  man  has  no  one  to  care  for  him,  his  personal  appearance  is  by 
no  means  neat  or  attractive.     He  wears  blue  overalls,  a  blue  Prince 

148 


Albert  coat,  a  red  handkerchief  around  his  neck,  and  an  old  straw 
hal  with  the  brim  Dearly  torn  off.  Although  his  face  is  full  of 
wrinkles,  each  line  indicating  hard  work,  his  eye  is  still  as  keen 
and  bright  as  that  of  a  roguish  school-boy.  When  Amos  was  a  young 
lad,  be  detested  books  and  never  missed  an  opportunity  to  run  away 
from  school  to  go  hunting  or  fishing.  While  his  education  is  very 
meagre,  there  is  not  a  subject  upon  which  he  will  not  argue  so 
long  as  he  can  find  a  listener.  He  is  a  political  "crank" — the  most 
erratic  democrat  in  the  town.  The  old  man  is  very  deaf  and  you  often 
can  hear  him  discussing  politics  for  nearly  a  block.  Uncle  Amos 
doe?  not  believe  in  religion,  yet  he  can  quote  more  scripture  than 
err  a  great  many  ministers.  He  reads  the  Bible  through  each  year, 
1  ut  more  to  get  material  for  his  arguments  than  for  any  spiritual 
purpose.  It  would  be  difficult  to  find  a  better  checker-player  than 
Uncle  Amos.  Often  when  he  is  distributing  his  vegetables,  he  finds 
E«»me  one  who  plays  checkers;  Immediately  his  business  ceases,  and 
the  old  man  laughingly  says,  "You'll  have  ter  get  up  purty  arly 
in  the  mornin'  to  beat  an  old  feller  like  me."  Uncle  Amos  has  this 
happy-go-lucky  spirit,  never  knowing  ore  day  where  he  will  get 
food  for  the  next,  yet  beneath  this  exterior  he  is  very  sensitive.  If 
he  imagines  that  anyone  is  tired  of  his  company,  he  will  feel  deeply 
hurt  and  walk  sadly  away.  We  laugh  at  his  arguments  and  his  old- 
fashioned  ways,  yet  we  cannot  help  sympathizing  with  him,  for  he 
is  a  very  old  man,  and  a  time  will  ccme  when  he  will  be  too  old  to 
sell  his  garden  "truck"  and  then  he  will  be  left  homeless  and  penniless. 
— Edith  Richardson. 

JANEY. 

Jarey,  as  she  is  called  by  everyone,  is  a  native  of  Vermont  and  a 
typical  old  maid.  She  lives  alone  in  a  small  house,  but  in  spite 
of  its  plain  furnishings,  her  visitors  always  feel  that  they  are 
welcome.  Her  personal  appearance  is  certainly  not  pleasing,  for  her 
eyes  are  a  little  crossed,  and  her  long  wrinkled  face  keenly  portrays 
the  suffering  that  she  has  endured  all  her  life.  She  is  nearly  six 
feet  tall  and  very  angular,  so  that  every  movement  is  extremely 
awkward.  Janey's  education  has  been  sadly  neglected.  Her  homely 
language  often  affords  great  amusement  to  her  friends.  One  day, 
when  introduced  to  a  lady,  Janey  said,  "How-dy-do,  how  long  do  you 
cacalate  bein'  in  these  parts?"  Another  day  when  returning  from 
church  she  remarked  "that  she  only  organized  one  woman  in  the 
hull  aggregation."  Kindness  and  sympathy  are  her  marked  char- 
acteristics. If  a  friend  is  ill  or  in  trouble,  she  will  do  everything 
in  her  power  to  help  him.  She  will  even  starve  herself  to  feed 
some  worthless  tramp.  Inquisitiveness  is  Janey's  worst  fault.  She 
is  never  happier  than  when,  with  her  knitting  in  her  hand,  she 
gossips   about  all   the   doings   of   the   people    in   the  neighborhood.      It 

149 


is  not  her  fault  if  she  does  not  kow  how  much  Sarah  Jones's  black 
dress  cost,  and  how  much  coloring  Mollie  Brown  puts  into  her  butter. 
Janey's  life  is  made  nearly  miserable  by  her  marked  sensitiveness. 
Because  she  is  poor,  she  is  always  imagining  that  people  are  trying 
to  snub  her.  Very  often  she  is  heard  to  remark,  "I  am  a  homely  old 
creature,  and  nobody  wants  me  a-botherin'  them."  The  Bible  is  Janey's 
constant  companion,  and,  in  her  lonely  hours,  she  gains  from  it 
inspiration  and  happiness.  She  has  lived  alone  in  her  little  home 
for  many  years,  but  it  cannot  be  long  before  a  morning  will  come 
when  the  neighbors  will  miss  the  accustomed  signs  of  life  about 
the  house,  and  will  find  that  her  sad  life  is  ended. — Edith  Richardson. 


A  VAIN   SECRET. 

There  comes  to  me  oft  in  silence, 

When  my  lamp  is  burning  low, 
And  the  black  uncertain   shadow 

Forms  pictures  of  long  ago; 
Then,  with  those  pangs  of  conscience, 

That  drive  me  nearly  daft, 
Comes  the  old  insistent  longing 

After  words  for  a  paragraph. 

Outside,  in  the  world  about  me, 

There  lie  in  each  little  space, 
Subjects  enough  to  busy 

The  whole  of  the  human  race; 
The  forest  with  birds  and  flowers, 

The  ocean  with  surging  tide, 
The  endless  flow  of  the  rivers 

That  through  the  meadows  glide. 

The  city  with  shop  and  office, 

Where  all  is  tumult  and  din, 
The  country  with  grand  old  farm-house 

All  peace  and  comfort  within; 
Why,  the  world  is  full  of  stories, 

That  beat  upon  my  brain, 
But  when  I  want  words  for  English 

I  search,  and  search — in  vain.     — Edith  Richardson. 


A  LONELY   SENTINEL. 

Out  on  the  lonely  prairie,  almost  destitute  of  any  signs  of  life, 
except  the  chirping  of  a  bird  now  and  then  and  the  occasional 
rumble  of  an  approaching  wagon,  there  stands  a  sentinel  who  never 

150 


shirks  his  duty.  He  is  tall  and  very  slender,  almost  ungainly  in 
appearance,  and  yet  like  other  friends,  his  defects  vanish  when  you 
know  him.  There  he  stands  with  his  head  erect,  his  arms  out- 
stretched, garbed  in  red,  with  black  and  white  trimmings,  serving 
as  an  admonition  to  every  passer-by.  Spring  comes  with  her  show 
ers.  dampening  his  clothing,  perhaps  chapping  his  hands,  but  summer 
heals  the  wounds  with  her  warm  breath  and  even  causes  him  to 
throw  back  his  shoulders  in  pride.  The  sand-storms  beat  against  him 
with  mad  fury,  but  he  does  not  surrender  to  their  incessant  attacks. 
Neither  the  chilly  blasts  of  November  nor  the  rag'ng  blizzards  are 
abls  to  shake  him  from  his  foundation.  F.res  and  tornadoes  are  his 
foes,  for  they  alone  can  destroy  him.  He  can  neither  see  nor  hear 
nor  spesk,  but  the  message  that  our  mute  sentinel  bears  to  the  world 
is  as  powerful  as  if  sung  by  a  chorus  of  hundreds.  When  old  age 
creeps  over  him  and  forces  him  to  lay  down  his  burden,  he  may 
do  it  cheerfully,  for  his  mission  has  been  a  successful  one,  and 
his  silent  message  "Look  out  for  the  cars"  has  been  the  salvation  of 
many  a  wandering  traveler. — Edith  Richardson. 


A  VISION  OF  NIGHT-FALL. 

The  air  is  still.  The  sheltered  spots  among  the  lowlands  are 
white  and  ghostly  with  the  gathering  fog.  Even  in  the  dimness  we 
can  see  it  floating  and  creeping  among  the  willows.  How  still  and 
motionless  the  leaves!  The  gnats  are  dancing  in  the  quiet  air.  We 
can  not  see  them,  but  we  can  hear  their  singing  wings.  The  rising  min 
has  stolen  close  about  us;  we  feel  its  chill,  and  it  has  become  filierl 
with  the  damp  odors  of  the  brooks  and  marshes,  while  now  and  then 
there  steals  upon  our  senses  that  delicate  dew-born  perfume,  the 
pure  faint  breath  from  some  awakening  primrose.  The  nymphs  of 
the  pond,  enshrouded  in  their  veil  of  mist,  have  long  since  gone 
to  rest,  and  could  our  eyes  but  penetrate  the  dim  shadows  around 
us,  we  might  discover  the  drowsy  leaves  losing  themselves  in  sleep. 
You  may  hear,  perhaps,  amid  the  silence,  the  plaintive  wail  of  some 
whip-poor-will  or  a  slight  rustling  of  the  leaves  overhead;  but  it 
is  not  the  breeze  that  rustles.  It  is  some  soft-winged  owl  that 
has  left  his  perch  for  his  dark  mission.  How  strange  and  weird  is 
this  mysterious  commotion  as  it  draws  nearer  and  nearer  to  you 
in  the  darkness!  Now  a  harsh  grating  note  of  the  first  katydid  sounds 
high  above  in  the  tree-top.  Another  and  another  seems  waiting  to 
take  up  the  challenge,  causing  the  air  to  vibrate  with  a  continuous 
discord.  Finally  our  senses  become  numbed,  the  last  glimmer  of  lighi 
is  gone,  and  there  is  nothing  left  but  this  black  curtain  of  all-conceal- 
ing night. — Edith  Richardson. 

151 


A  COLORED  PICTURE. 

While  riding  on  the  street-car  the  other  day,  I  began,  as  usual, 
to  observe  my  fellow  passengers.  However,  none  of  them  particularly 
interested  me  except  two  little  colored  boys  about  five  and  seven 
years  of  age.  They  were  in  one  corner  of  the  car,  and  as  I  first 
glanced  at  them,  they  reminded  me  of  two  enormous  toads,  for  they 
were  kneeling  side  by  side  on  the  seat  and  sitting  on  their  heels, 
while  their  elbows  rested  on  the  window-sill  and  their  chins  on  their 
hands;  thus  they  were  in  a  good  position  to  view  the  scenery  as 
we  passed.  From  this  back-view  which  I  had  of  them,  they  looked 
to  be  about  the  same  size;  one  wore  a  red  and  black  plaid  cap,  a  dull 
gray  suit,  and  shoes  that  evidently  were  not  made  to  match;  the 
neck  of  his  coat  was  covered  by  the  ruffled  collar  of  his  shirt-waist, 
which  gave  just  a  hint  that  it  had  once  been  white.  The  other  child 
wore  a  blue  cap,  evidently  his  father's,  judging  from  its  size,  a 
faded  brown  suit,  a  blue  shirt-waist  with  a  torn  but  ruffled  collar, 
and  brown  stockings  which  peeped  out  boldly  from  the  soles  of  the 
ragged  shoes. 

When  the  boys  had  tired  of  looking  out  of  the  window,  they  both 
turned  around  and  sat  on  the  seat,  and  this  time  they  reminded 
me  of  the  Gold  Dust  advertisement  which  one  so  often  sees.  This 
front  view  proved  more  interesting  than  the  back  one  had  been,  but 
it  showed  off  their  ragged  clothes  to  about  the  same  advantage; 
for  there  was  not  a  button  to  be  seen  on  either  shirt-waist,  pins 
being  used  instead,  while  there  were  large  holes  in  the  knees  of 
all  four  stockings,  and  the  four  shoestrings  hung  down  as  though 
they  had  never  known  what  it  was  to  be  tied. 

However,  a  glance  at  the  faces  of  the  children  showed  them  to 
be  so  homely  that  they  were  attractive,  the  most  conspicuous  features 
being  their  shiny  black  eyes  and  the  rows  of  white,  even  teeth. — Mabel 
H.  Siller. 


MY    CLOCK. 


She  is  a  pretty  blonde,  if  I  may  so  call  her;  for,  while  you 
could  not  say  that  she  has  golden  hair,  she  is  all  golden  except  her 
face,  which  is  as  white  as  snow,  and  her  hands,  which,  alas!  are  as 
black  as  jet.  But  although  her  complexion  is  pale,  she  has  a  bright 
little  countenance  and  a  musical  voice.  She  is  a  cheerful  companion, 
too,  for  she  is  a  great  talker;  it  is  true  that  some  people  might  say 
that  her  voice  is  monotonous,  but  it  is  not  so  to  me.  Besides,  she 
has  much  sympathy,  for  if  I  feel  tired  and  sad,  she  looks  at  me  in 
a  pitying  manner,  and  her  voice  seems  softer  as  she  tells  me  to 
cheer  up,  for  all  will  be  well.  On  the  other  hand,  if  I  am  in  good 
spirits,  she  shares  my  feelings,  and  babbles  away  as  though  she 
could  not  talk  enough  in  a  minute  to  express   her  vivacity.     She  is. 

J  52 


very  punctual,  too,  and  has  a  good  influence  over  me,  for  she 
reminds  me  when  it  is  time  to  go  to  recitations;  and  if,  upon  retiring, 
I  tell  her  that  I  must  rise  early  in  order  to  study,  in  the  morning 
she  awakens  me  at  just  the  proper  time  with  a  sharp  little  trill, 
which  she  continues  until  she  is  sure  that  1  am  wide  awake.  Then 
sometimes  she  plays  the  role  of  chaperon  and  if  I  come  home  late 
from  some  party,  she  holds  up  both  her  little  hands  in  utter  surprise, 
and,  telling  me  the  hour,  bids  me  hasten  to  retire;  then  she  sings 
me  to  sleep  with  a  soft  monotonous  lullaby. — Mabel  H.  Siller. 


OLD  KAPERS. 


It  was  Sunday  morning,  and  from  the  little  white  meeting-house 
at  the  end  of  the  village  street  came  the  sound  of  the  old  cracked 
bell,  mournfully  tolling,  what  seemed  a  death-knell  to  the  small 
boy,  who  stood  in  the  doorway  of  his  home,  his  face  shining  with 
cleanliness,  and  his  brown  hair  smooth  as  brush  and  wrater  could 
make  it.  He  looked  very  miserable  indeed,  and  seemed  afraid  to 
move  for  fear  some  speck  of  dust  flying  aimlessly  about  might  fall 
upon  his  burnished  countenance.  Would  his  mother  ever  be  ready? 
But  at  last  she  appeared,  attired  in  her  best  black  silk,  with  its  jet 
trimmings,  and  wearing  on  her  face  the  beatified  expression,  which 
was  as  inseparable  from  her  Sunday  costume  as  was  the  small 
black  creation  with  the  straggling  growth  of  purple  pansies,  which 
she  perched  on  the  top  of  her  well-proportioned  head. 

Mrs.  Jones  was  what  her  "poor,  dear,  departed  husband"  had 
called  "a  capable  woman,"  though  just  why  the  late  Mr.  Jones  had 
always  sighed  when  he  spoke  of  her  was  an  unsolved  riddle.  She  did 
look  capable,  as  she  marched  along  the  street,  dragging  the  unwilling 
Johnnie  towards  the  sound  of  the  tolling  bell.  She  was  a  painfully 
neat  woman,  and  it  grieved  her  to  notice  that  neighbor  Brown's  front 
yard  needed  raking,  and  that  the  Thompson's  gate  was  off  its  hinges. 
As  she  drew  nearer  their  destination,  her  face  became  sterner,  for 
there,  huddled  almost  in  the  shadow  of  the  church  walls,  was  a 
tumble-down  little  house,  beaten  by  the  storms  of  many  years; 
and  now  in  last  night's  rainstorm,  the  bricks  from  the  totter- 
ing chimney  had  fallen,  and  were  scattered  over  the  steep  roof  and 
down  below  in  the  moss-grown  path  before  the  door.  It  was  a 
picturesque  old  place,  with  the  woodbine  climbing  in  bewildering  con- 
fusion over  the  dark  walls  and  ragged  roof.  But  to  Mrs.  Jones  the 
sight  was  far  from  pleasing.  She  saw  only  a  tumble-down  old  house 
huddled  close  to  their  beautiful  little  church,  which,  in  its  fresh 
coat  of  white  paint,  seemed,  like  a  little  girl  dressed  for  Sunday 
school,  fairly  to  glow  with  importance  and  say,  "See  how  sweet  and 
clean  I  am!" 

"Why  can't  the  old  miser  let  us  buy  the  tumble-down  old  shanty 

153 


and  move  it  away?"  demanded  Mrs.  Jones,  glaring  fiercely  a.  Johnnie, 
who,  feeling  called  upon  to  say  something,  looked  through  the  broken 
pickets  and  screamed, 

"  Kapers,  Kapers,  dressed  in  rags, 
Where  do   you  hide  your  money-bags?" 

Of  course  Johnnie  was  reproved  for  this,  but  after  all  wasn't  old 
Kapers  a  miser?  He  never  spent  a  cent,  and  everyone  said  he  had 
bags  and  bags  of  gold  hidden  away  somewhere. 

While  the  minister  was  preaching  Mrs.  Jones  was  planning  a 
campaign.  Immediately  after  church  she  would  call  upon  the  old 
man,  and  she  would  succeed  where  others  had  failed.  She  would 
buy  the  house. 

She  did  not  linger  to  gossip  after  church,  but  with  determined 
step  picked  her  way  through  the  bricks  in  the  path  that  led  up  to 
old  Kaper's  door.  There  was  no  answer  to  her  knock,  so  after  an 
apprehensive  glance  at  the  dingy  windows,  she  lifted  the  latch  and 
entered.  It  was  a  dismal  room  that  she  saw,  dingy  with  dust  and 
smoke.  She  seemed  to  have  left  the  present  behind,  and  was  now 
alone  with  the  past,  not  alone  though,  for  in  the  far  corner  of  the 
room  was  an  old  painting  of  a  beautiful  lady,  and  sitting  before  it, 
with  head  bowed  like  a  humble  worshiper  before  a  shrine,  was  Old 
Kapers.  He  did  not  answer  when  Mrs.  Jones  spoke,  so  she  crossed 
the  room,  and  touched  him  on  the  shoulder,  but  he  remained  motion- 
less. He  no  longer  needed  the  old  house;  the  church  people  might 
have  it  now  to  take  away  or  tear  down,  just  as  they  wished.  The 
eyes  of  the  beautiful  lady  in  the  picture  seemed  to  flash  in  scornful 
judgment  of  the  woman  who  stood  before  her,  dumbly  confessing  her 
mistake.  A  few  minutes  later  as  Mrs.  Jones  walked  down  the  long 
street  towards  her  home,  the  tall  elms  nodded  mysteriously,  and  seemed 
to  whisper  softly  to  one  another,  "We  knew  it  all  the  time." — Lilian 
Bayne. 


THE  RACE  OF  THE  WAVES. 

I. 

W  hen  the  wind  blows  over  the  lake  so  keen, 

And  whistles  and  calls  to  the  rocky  shore. 
It  rouses  a  spirit  of  terrible  mien, 
Shameless  and  treacherous,  too,  I  ween, 
Like  a  demon  wakened  to  sleep  no  more. 

II. 
With  an  angry  roar  and  a  passionate  cry, 

From  the  deepest  deep  he  comes  with  a  spring, 
He  lashes  the  waves  till  they  dash  on  high, 
And  the  foam  flies  light  to  meet  the  sky, 

As  light  and  as  white  as  a  gull  on  the  wing. 
154 


III. 

Then  the  clouds  grow  dark,  and  the  sunbeams  hide, 

And  the   waves  obey   the  terrible  hand 
Of  the  demon  dire,  who  stands  at  their  side, 
Urging  them  on  as  they  kiss  and  roar. 

In  that  madd'ning  race  to  the  beach  of  sand. 

IV. 
So  they  rise  and  fall  as  they  dash  along, 

Now  sad  and  weary,  with  hopeless  soul ; 
Now  noisy  and  boisterous  with  jubilant  song, 

But  each  one  hurrying,  hurrying  on, 
Till  kissing,  and  swishing,  they  reach  the  goal. 

— Lilian  Bayne. 


THE    CLOUDED   MIRROR. 

The  sun  was  shining,  but  I  did  not  see  it;  the  birds  were  singing, 
but  their  songs  were  not  for  me.  The  world  seemed  to  be  enveloped 
in  a  dull,  smoky  cloud,  through  whose  blanket-like  folds  there  pene- 
trated no  gleam  of  sunlight.  All  was  dark,  smoky,  dismal.  The 
beggar  on  the  street  corner  held  out  a  miserable  hand  for  alms;  on  his 
face  were  written  despair,  vice,  crime.  No,  he  was  not  worth  the 
pittance  that  he  begged.  Let  him  die,  I  thought,  it  is  better  so;  he 
is  capable  of  no  good  deed;   no,  not  even  of  a  good  thought. 

1  closed  my  eyes  to  shut  out  the  dismal  view,  arid  leaned  back  in 
my  chair.  Perhaps  I  slept,  for  I  seemed  to  stand  on  the  mossy 
bank  of  a  little  brook,  looking  down  into  the  clear  water,  while  beside 
me  a  clump  of  white  birches  stretched  their  slender  forms  toward 
the  blue  sky,  and  every  tender  leaf  was  lovingly  uplifted  to  meet 
the  chance  kisses  of  the  sunbeams,  which  danced  in  and  out  of  the 
leafy  bower,  playing  hide  and  seek  with  the  water-drops.  From  the 
crystal  surface  of  the  water,  Nature  smiled  back  at  me;  for  every 
delicate  tint  of  color  in  foliage,  flowers,  and  sky  mirrored  there  in 
its  perfect  loveliness.  Suddenly  a  heavy  stone  rolled  down  the 
bank,  gathering  the  black,  sticky  mud  as  it  went.  Splash!  Into  the 
clear  deep  pool  it  fell.  In  an  instant  all  was  changed.  The  water 
no  longer  glistened  with  crystalline  splendor;  Nature's  mirror  seemed 
shattered;  nothing  remained  but  a  dull,  muddy  pool,  sending  back 
only  imperfect  reflections  of  the  smiling  scene  above.  All  the  subtle 
tints  of  coloring,  all  the  delicate  lines  and  curves  were  lost  in  a  con- 
fused and  grotesque  caricature.  Then,  as  I  watched,  the  water  grew 
gradually  clearer,  until  at  last  it  became  once  more  Nature's  truest 
mirror. 

Yes,  it  must  have  been  a  dream,  for  when  I  opened  my  eyes  the 
woodland  scene  had  vanished,  and  I  looked  out  once  more  upon  the 
street.    But  how  changed  it  was!     The  sun  was  shining;  the  birds  were 

155 


singing  their  songs  to  me;  the  beggar  was  still  at  his  post,  and  near 
him  a  little  child  was  playing,  and,  as  the  hardened  eyes  met  those 
of  the  innocent  child,  there  came  over  that  beggar's  face  something 
that  I  had  not  seen  there  before,  something  noble.  Had  it  been  therd 
all  the  time?  Why  had  I  not  been  able  to  find  it  and  to  draw  it  from 
its  hiding-place? — Lilian  Bayne. 


THE  SOLUTION  OF  A  WEIGHTY  PROBLEM. 

"Well,  I  guess  I  must  be  goin',  Miss  WTheeler;  I  jist  drapped  in  to 
say  how-dye-do,"  and  Elder  Judson  slowly  and  deliberately  rose.     Miss 
Wheeler  rose  also;  "You  ain't  goin'  so  quick,  be  you?"  she  asked,  smil- 
ing.    Miss  Wheeler  had  ore  of  those  genial,  winning  smile:  that  we 
read  about  so  of.  en  and  so  seldom  see.     That  sm'le  ha  I  almost  ca^ 
tured  the  elder  more  than  orce  in  his  younger  days,  but  he  had  always 
oeen  rather  slow  and  deliberate,  and  he  never  acted  except  a  iter  long 
and  prayerful  consideration.     As  time  wore  on  the  elder  grew  more 
cautious,  until  now  even  the  village  gossips,-  after  wasting  ten  years  in 
chattering  of  tongues  and  fruitless  craning  of  necks,  had  aL  lisL.  given 
up  in  despair,  and  did  not  even  glance  out  of  their  windows  to  see  the 
elder  go  by  on  his  way  to  call  on  Betty  Wheeler.     As  for  the  elder,  he 
was   still   meditating,   for   it  was  a   difficult   problem   that  he   had   to 
settle;  the  trouble  lay  here:  the  elder  was  a  religious  man,  but  Betty, 
alas,  in  spite  of  his  efforts,  in  spite  of  the  efforts  of  the  whole  com- 
munity, could  not  be  induced  to  enter  the  church  door.     She  had  even 
declared  that  sermons  were  stupid,  and  that  it  was  a  bore  to  go   to 
church.     All  this  had  horrified  the  good  elder,  who  was  seen  as  regu- 
larly in  his  pew  as  the  minister  was  in  the  pulpit.     It  is  true  the  elder 
often  closed  his  eyes  during  the  service,  but  no  doubt  he  could  think 
bet'er  with  them  closed.     And  now  as  the  elder  looked  up  and  met 
Betty's   smile,  he  felt  again   the  awfulness  of  her  heathen  state.     If 
only  she  would  go  to  church  like  other  folks! 

Suddenly  Betty  started  and  gazed  intently  at  a  corner  of  the  room; 
the  smile  fled,  like  an  April  sunbeam,  and  her  face  assumed  an  expres- 
sion of  horror.  The  elder  clutched  his  hat  nervously.  What  was  the 
matter?  Did  Betty  see  an  evil  spirit?  Just  then,  tearing  off  her  blue 
gingham  apron,  she  waved  it  wildly  about  her  head  like  a  sword  of 
victory,  and  started  on  a  mad  race  around  the  room;  now  stopping  to 
brandish  her  weapon,  now  dashing  on  faster  than  before.  "This  is  no 
time  for  thought,"  said  the  elder  to  himself,  as  he  started  after  her. 
No  doubt  Betty  had  gone  mad,  and  thought  herself  pursued  by  evil 
spirits;  still  it  looked  as  though  she  were  the  pursuer.  Yet,  she  must 
be  stopped  at  any  cost;  that  was  evident.  But  suddenly  she  stopped 
of  her  own  accord.  One  triumphant  swing  of  the  blue  apron;  one 
quick  downward  swoop  of  her  hand;  then  she  turned  around  to  the 
elder,   whose  red   face  glowed  like  a  round,  bewildered  moon.     "This 

156 


ain't  no  game  of  tag,  I'll  hvx'  ye  know,  Elder  Judson,"  she  aaid  scom 
fully,  "but."  she  added  In  tones  of  triumph,  "l  caught  him,  the  pesky 
little  cretur,"  and  she  held  up  a  small  fly,  feebly  buzzing  in  her  power- 
ful grasp.  As  the  elder  drove  homeward,  a  thought  came  to  him,  and 
he  whispered  softly,  "Cleanliness  is  next  to  godliness,"  and  he  chuckled 
so  gleefully  that  the  old  horse  looked  around  in  sheer  amazement,  and 
blinked  at  him  solemnly. — Lilian  Bayne. 


MIS.^     ELIZA. 


Tick-tock,  tick-tock.  There  was  not  a  sound  in  the  room  save  the 
business-like  tones  of  the  spry  little  clock  on  the  mantel-shelf,  mingled 
with  the  occasional  click  of  Miss  Eliza's  knitting-needles.  The  dim 
light  from  the  little  lamp  on  the  table  shone  down  on  Miss  Eliza's  head 
as  she  bent  over  her  work.  Her  faded  flaxen  hair  was  curled  in  little 
even  waves  and  neatly  parted  in  the  middle.  Dressed  in  her  best 
black  silk  gown,  with  the  lace  in  the  neck  and  sleeves,  the  stiff  white 
apron  tied  around  her  waist,  and  the  prim  little  dressed-up-for-com- 
pany  air,  Eliza  looked  exactly  as  she  had  every  Saturday  night  for 
twenty  years;  except  that  now  the  thin  hair  was  becoming  more  faded 
and  uncertain  in  color,  and  her  little  anxious  face  showed  more  wrink- 
les every  day;  then  the  silk  gown,  that  twenty  years  ago  had  stood  out 
so  proudly,  and  had  rustled  with  such  a  self-contented  air,  had  now 
grown  somewhat  rusty,  and  shrunk  close  to  her  little  figure,  as  though 
by  long  companionship  it  had  become  a  part  of  Miss  Eliza's  own 
shrinking  nature.  Every  now  and  then  she  glanced  around  the  room; 
once  she  went  to  the  mantel-shelf  to  blow  an  imaginary  speck  of  dust 
from  a  brass  candle-stick;  once  she  stooped  quickly,  and  picked  up  a 
thread  from  the  faded  rag-carpet.  How  careless  of  her  to  have  allowed 
it  to  fall!  What  if  one  of  the  neighbors  had  seen  it!  She  hurried 
with  the  offending  thread  to  throw  it  into  the  fireplace.  There  was- a 
modest  little  fire  burning  in  the  grate,  a  very  modest  fire  that  burned 
neatly  and  primly,  as  though  afraid  of  throwing  out  a  spark  and  there- 
by offending  Miss  Eliza. 

Before  the  fireplace,  warming  and  toasting  themselves,  with  a  com- 
fortable and  very-much-at-home  sort  of  air,  were  two  enormous  slip 
pers.  And  no  wonder  they  felt  at  home,  for  had  they  not  stood  there 
for  twenty  years,  waiting?  And  they  would  stand  there  for  twenty 
years  more,  if  need  be,  and  would  never  complain.  Eliza  looked  with 
pride  at  the  slippers.  Yes,  those  red  roses  on  the  toes  were  certainly 
the  most  artistic  pieces  that  she  had  ever  worked.  "He  never  was 
overneat  about  his  boots,"  she  murmured  to  herself,  "and  these  slip- 
pers were  just  the  thing.  When  he  came  to  call  Saturday  nights,  he 
cud  jest  slip  off  his  boots  on  the  back  porch,  and  put  these  slippers  on. 
and  then  there  warn't  no  fear  of  his  ever  tracking  in  a  lot  of  mud.  I 
s'pose,  though,  he  warn't  no  more  careless  than  most  men-folks." 

157 


Just  then  the  spry  little  clock  struck  nine,  and  Miss  Eliza  carefully 
folded  her  knitting-work.  "Twenty  years  ago  since  he  went  to  Cali- 
fornia," she  sighed,  then  she  added  hopefully,  "But  maybe  next  Satur- 
day he'll  come  and  surprise  me." — Lilian  Bayne. 


THE   MYSTERY  NEXT  DOOR. 

The  tongues  were  unusually  busy  that  day,  and  an  air  of  suppressed 
excitement  hung  about  the  little  groups  of  women  who  had  met  in 
Mrs.  Bidden's  sitting-room  to  sew  for  the  poor  and,  incidentally,  to 
discuss  matters  of  more  vital  importance  than  poverty-stricken  people 
in  lack  of  necessary  garments.  Who  wouldn't  have  been  excited?  For 
new  neighbors  were  moving  in  next  door,  and  Mrs.  Bidden's  windows 
afforded  an  excellent  view  of  the  interesting  proceedings.  "Land,  but 
they've  got  a  lot  of  furniture!"  said  Mrs.  Bidden.  "What  do  you  s'pose 
they're  goin'  to  do  with  all  them  chairs?  Looks  as  though  they  were 
goin'  to  keep  a  boardin'  house."  "That's  a  kind  of  rickety  old  book- 
case, ain't  it?"  asked  another  member  of  the  sewing  circle.  "Or,  ain't 
it  a  bookcase?"  she  added,  squinting  her  near-sighted  eyes  to  see  better. 
"Well,  I  do  believe  it's  a  foldin'  bed,"  answered  Mrs.  Bidden.  "And  I 
guess  they'll  hev  to  fold  up  other  things  besides  beds,  if  they  think 
they're  goin'  to  get  all  that  furniture  into  that  little  house.  Such  a 
misfit  lot  of  old  sticks  of  furniture  I  never  did  see!"  Suddenly  the 
little  short-sighted  woman  by  the  window  started,  took  off  one  pair  of 
glasses,  and  put  on  another  pair  that  she  used  for  long  distance  pros- 
pecting; then  she  gasped,  "Land  o'  Goshen!  I  do  believe  I'm  goin' 
blind!  But  if  that  don't  look  like  a  coffin,  it  beats  all  the  optical  illu- 
sions I  ever  heard  tell  on!"  At  this,  every  member  of  the  circle, 
according  to  her  own  method  of  locomotion,  rushed,  scrambled,  wab- 
bled to  the  window.  "It  is  a  coffin,  there  ain't  no  mistakin'  them  silver 
handles,"  said  Mrs.  Jones,  who,  in  spite  of  weight  and  a  weak  heart, 
had  arrived  first  at  the  window.  "What  do  you  s'pose  is  in  it?"  asked 
another  horrified  member.  "I  dunno,"  said  Mrs.  Bidden,  and  her  voice 
sounded  dry  and  hollow.  "But  I  ain't  goin'  to  stand  it  to  live  close  to 
people  who  harbor  coffins  in  their  houses.  Like  enough  they're  spirit- 
ualists, and  will  have  seances  every  night,  and  ghosts  walking  over 
my  flower-beds!  It's  more  than  I  can  bear!"  It  was  useless  to  try  to 
comfort  her,  and  the  sewing  circle  broke  up  soon  afterward. 

Several  days  went  by,  and  the  coffin  mystery,  in  spite  of  the  valiant 
efforts  of  the  sewing  circle,  still-remained  unsolved.  Mrs.  Bidden  grew 
gloomier  every  day,  and  fancied  that  she  heard  ghostly  rappings  and 
that  she  felt  spirit  hands  clutching  her  whenever  she  went  through 
dark  rooms.  Finally,  Mr.  Bidden  resolved  to  solve  the  mystery.  Meet- 
ing the  new  neighbor  in  the  postoffice,  he  assailed  him  with  three  ques- 
tions: Why  he  kept  a  coffin  in  his  house;  what  was  in  the  coffin;  and 
whether    they    were    Spiritualists.      The   new    neighbor    gasped    for    a 

158 


moment;  then  studying  his  boots  sheepishly,  he  said,  "Well,  my  wife's 

pretty  fond  of  a  good  bargain,  and  she  got  that  coffin  knocked  down 
to  her  real   cheap  one  time,   because  one  of  the  hand  1 1  little 

bent.  There  ain't  likely  to  be  any  immediate  occasion  to  use  It,  aa 
we're  both  in  good  health,  but  you  can't  always  tell;  it  might  come  in 
real  handy  some  day."' — Lilian   Bayne. 


THE  DAISY.  THE  FOUR  O'CLOCK.  AND  THE  MAIDEN. 

I. 
"The  world  is  all  wrong,"  the  four  o'clock  said, 
As  he  woke  with  a  start  in  his  little  brown  bed, 
But  the  daisy  smiled  when  she  opened  her  eyes, 
And  saw  in  his  glory  the  old  sun  rise. 
•'Oh,  this  world  is  a  beautiful  world,"  she  said, 
And  she  gently  nodded  her  dainty  head. 

II. 
The  four  o'clock  trembled  with  anger  and  scorn, 
"You  wTill  wish  some  day  you  never  were  born, 
When  the  rain  beats  fierce,  and  the  sun  shines  hot, 
And  you  wither  and  dry,  or  else  you  rot; 
Or,  clutched  by  a  greedy  child,  you  are  torn, 
And  left  on  the  ground  to  die  forlorn." 

III. 
Then  a  maiden  came  with  step  so  light, 
And  she  saw  the  daisy  so  pure  and  white, 
She  plucked  it  gently,  and  whispered  low, 
"Now,  Daisy,  tell  me,  if  it  is  so. 
He  loves  me,  Daisy?"    the  first  petal  fell, 
"He  loves  me  not.     Is  it  truth  you  tell?" 

IV. 

And  slowly  the  petals,  one  by  one. 

Were  plucked  by  the  maiden,  whose  hair  in  the  sun, 

Glistened  and  shone  like  fibres  of  gold. 

But  at  last  the  daisy  her  tale  had  told, 

And  the  maiden  kissed  the  daisy's  head. 

"Oh,  this  world  is  a  beautiful  world,"  she  said. 

— Lilian  Bayne. 

STUDENTS  SHOULD  NOT  WORK  FOR  PHI  BETA  KAPPA. 

Every  student  would  like  the  honor  of  Phi  Beta  Kappa,  indeed, 
some  desire  it  so  much  that  they  not  only  "dig"  by  day  but  toil  by 
night  against  that  day  when  their  keys  may  come.  Social  functions 
are    shunned;     musical    entertainments    and    lectures    are    considered 

159 


secondary.  Nothing  is  of  any  moment  to  them  except  as  it  increases 
their  store  of  knowledge  and  their  A's.  We  have  even  known  health 
and  the  rest  of  the  Sabbath  to  be  sacrificed  to  this  absorbing  ambition. 
All  this,  however,  might  be  pardonable  if  the  student  were  sure  of  his 
goal.  But  he  is  not  sure.  Even  after  all  his  labor  and  longing,  it  may 
yet  be  in  vain.  Perhaps  he  makes  a  C  in  some  subject.  Perhaps  there 
are  so  many  brilliant  students  in  his  class  that  his  scholarship  is  not 
quite  high  enough  to  lift  him  into  the  list  of  the  favored  ones.  Per- 
haps his  health  fails.  What,  then,  avails  all  this  expenditure  of  energy 
and  physical  comfort  to  the  neglect  of  health,  morals,  and  social  devel- 
opment? The  wise  student,  keeping  in  mind  the  need  of  a  broad  culture 
and  realizing  the  possibility  of  disappointment,  will  not  spend  the  days 
of  his  college  course  in  working  for  Phi  Beta  Kappa. — Grace  D.  Mercer. 


THE   COW   IS   NOT  A  NECESSITY   IN   A   LANDSCAPE. 

Since  the  time  of  some  of  the  greatest  and  earliest  landscape  paint- 
ers, the  cow,  so  much  used  by  them,  has  been  considered  almost  a 
necessity  in  a  picture.  No  landscape  has  been  complete  without  one 
of  these  stupid  animals  chewing  her  cud  in  the  foreground.  To  be 
sure,  in  a  green  scene,  a  bit  of  complimentary  color  brought  about  by  a 
brilliant  red  cow  is  not  unpleasing;  but,  when  that  same  cow  makes 
her  appearance  time  after  time,  generation  after  generation,  she 
becomes  somewhat  monotonous.  And,  when  the  peaceful  and  natural 
red  or  black  creature  of  the  past  degenerates  into  the  popular  purple 
cow  with  that  surprised  look  in  her  eyes  at  finding  herself  brought 
forward  into  such  gorgeous  prominence,  it  is  time  for  the  cow  in  our 
pictures  to  be  discarded.  Probably  .the  gentle  cow  was  first  introduced 
into  landscapes  to  suggest  lazy,  rural  tranquillity,  but  now  she  has 
become  an  animal  daubed  with  patches  of  paint  of  as  many  colors  as 
Joseph's  coat,  and  her  general  purple  tinge  suggests  merely  that  she  is 
a  cow  from  the  noisy  and  confused  city,  for  no  one,  even  though  he 
were  ready  to  respect  the  purple  in  any  form,  could  expect  rich,  yellow 
country  cream  from  a  royal  purple  cow.  So,  as  long  as  the  cow  in  land- 
scapes has  lost  her  primal  beauty,  is  greatly  over-worked  as  a  portrait 
model,  and  no  longer  brings  to  our  minds  the  quiet  peace  of  the  coun- 
try, let  us  hope  that,  henceforth,  she  will  not  be  considered  a  necessity, 
and  that  a  good  proportion  of  landscapes  will  appear,  in  the  future, 
without  the  inevitable  cow. — Katharine  Mac  Harg. 


SENIORS  SHOULD  ADOPT  THE  MORTAR-BOARD. 

Instead  of  their  present  Grand  Army  of  the  Republic  capital  pun- 
ishment, the  seniors  should  adopt  the  mortar-board  cap.  The  senior 
hat  so  overshadows  and  obscures  the  senior  head  that  the  existence  of 
the  latter  cavity  often,  especially  in  the  case  of  the  men,  becomes  a 

160 


matter  for  speculation.    Thus  we  are  obliged  to  tell  our  senior  friend 
thai   his  hat  sets  well  on   his  shoulders,  or  that    his  coat-collar   Bts 

snugly  around  his  hat  This  impression  of  the  non-existence  of  a  bead 
is  especially  undesirable  since  the  senior  has  felt  it  Incumbent  upon 
him  to  get  him  not  only  an  heart  but  also  an  head  of  wisdom  and  has 
been  so  manipulating  jaw.  ears,  ami  neck  as  to  increase  the  dimensions 
of  his  brain-holder.  He  has  no  sooner  accomplished  his  stupendous 
task  than  he  pulls  a  large  white  hat  down  over  his  ears,  and  all  is  lost' 
The  mortar-board  cap.  however,  is  small  and  unassuming.  The  head 
which  wears  it  looms  out  in  its  proper  proportions.  Furthermore  its 
flat  top.  besides  giving  a  finished  appearance  to  the  individual  has  a 
look  of  assured  expectancy  of  the  pat  of  approbation  which  will  dis- 
miss the  senior  when  the  end  shall  have  come.  Since  the  mortar-board 
not  only  does  not  hinder  the  senior's  progress  but  furthers  it  and  has 
a  peculiar  appropriateness,  it  should  be  adopted  as  the  class  hat - 
Grace   E.   Shuman. 


SWEARING  IS   JUSTIFIABLE   IN  WOMEN. 

In  a  convincing  and  "blue-mark-worthy"  article,  it  has  recently 
been  shown  that  swearing  is  justifiable-in  men.  Now,  there  is  a  limit 
to  the  exercise  of  the  masculine  prerogative.  Man  may  have  a  corner 
on  hirsute  facial  adornment,  and  may  have  the  right  at  election-time 
to  distinguish  himself  unquestionably  from  the  common  rabble  of 
women  children,  criminals  and  imbeciles  by  his  ability  to  make  a 
cross  But  no  law  of  nature  or  of  man's  framing  has  restricted  the 
right  to  swear.  Furthermore,  the  arguments  which  held  in  the  former 
case  hold  also  in  this.  Thus  it  was  urged  that  man  must  have  a  vent 
for  his  emotions.  Now,  it  is  the  boast  of  men  that  they  are  not  so 
emotional  as  women.  The  greater  the  need,  then,  the  more  justifiable 
the  means  of  relief.     Again,  the  argument  was   clinched   by  biblical 

ZTT  J**  ^  find  "  MaUheW  4:35  inStead  of  "—  not  at  hus 
band,  brother,  sweetheart,  inconstant  skirt-binding,  or  unruly  locks" 

self  sTrT  /T"!  t0  ""^  DOt  at  alL"  W°man'  accustomed  to 
self-sacrifice,  gladly  obeys  and  swears  at  only  a  few.     The  fact  that 

shown'r11116!'8^"6  C°nVincing  in  the  case  of  man,  and  have  been 
shown  to  apply  here  also,  would  be  sufficient  proof  that  swearing  is 
justifiable  in  woman,  but  there  is  in  addition  the  universal  suffrage 
granted  by  law  to  such  as  swear.-Grace  E.  Shuman. 

DANDELIONS   SHOULD   BE   EXTERMINATED. 
Some  time  after  the  poets  have  announced  to  us  that 

"Sprig,  sweet  sprig,  is  comig 
For  I  feel  id  in  the  air, 
161 


Dow  the  snow  is  gedly  thawig, 
Bud  and  slush  are  ebery  where," 

the  grass  really  does  become  green,  and  spring  flowers  do  bloom. 
Among  the  earliest  of  these  "stars  that  in  earth's  firmament  do  shine," 
"tender  wishes  blossoming  at  night,"  and  "messengers  of  spring,"  are 
the  common  dandelions,  which,  like  Jonah's  gourd,  seem  to  spring  up  in 
a  single  night.  The  praises  of  the  dandelion  have  been  sung  by 
poets  innumerable  and  it  is  no  wonder  for  they,  being  the  earliest 
flowers,  delight  the  hearts  of  little  children  and  of  people  who  do  not 
possess  conservatories.  But  this  joy  "endureth  but  a  night,"  and  sor- 
row "cometh  in  the  morning;"  for  in  the  warm  summer  days  it  is  very 
unpleasant  to  see  the  dark,  dusty  green  of  the  dandelion  usurp  the 
place  of  clover  or  blue-grass  and  exhaust  the  nourishment  intended 
for  them.  Moreover,  if  we  allow  them  to  live  and  flourish,  the  gardener 
will  become  lazy,  and  his  customary  exercise  will  be  lacking,  for  there 
will  be  no  need  to  sow  any  seed — the  wind  does  that — and  the  rapid 
spread  of  these  un-beautiful  plants  renders  all  care  useless.  In  addi- 
tion, the  cheerful  whirr  of  the  lawnmower  will  be  forever  hushed. 
But  if  it  is  argued  that,  as  an  article  of  food,  the  dandelion  should  be 
protected  and  encouraged,  please  plant  it  in  the  kitchen-garden,  where 
it  belongs,  with  lettuce,  radishes,  asparagus,  and  beets. — Bertha  White. 


THE  CHARTER  OF   NORTHWESTERN  UNIVERSITY  SHOULD  BE 

ABROGATED. 

"Man  is  by  nature  a  social  animal,"  so  the  learned  philosophers 
of  antiquity  tell  us,  and  our  own  wise  men  agree  with  them.  If  this 
is  so,  Northwestern  produces  an  abnormal  species,  because,  as  we  were 
told  Tuesday,  man  in  this  college  is  a  decidedly  unsocial  animal.  The 
youth  here  are  notoriously  snobbish  and  exclusive,  a  state  deplorable 
in  a  democratic  country  that  aspires  to  the  Christian  ideal  of  the 
brotherhood  of  man.  Then,  too,  the  students  lack  the  college  spirit 
which  is  one  of  the  most  important  features  in  university  life.  Thirdly, 
this  noble  co-educational  institution,  as  was  said  last  Thursday,  is 
rapidly  degenerating  into  a  female  seminary,  and  degeneration  is  best 
stopped  by  annihilation.  Fourthly,  it  has  a  reputation  throughout  the 
country  for  ferocious  hazing  and  rapidly  consummated  engagements, 
which  the  deluded  Philistines  have  the  audacity  to  consider  out  of 
place  in  an  institution  of  learning. 

Lastly,  though  it  is  a  richly  endowed  university,  no  one  can  be 
induced  to  accept  the  Presidency.  The  easiest  way  to  solve  the  prob- 
lem is  to  send  the  students  home  and  abrogate  the  charter. — Minnie 
Sutter. 

162 


THE  CHARGE  OF  THE  PENS 

I  With  apologies  to  Tennyson.) 

Twice  a  week,  twice  a   week, 

Twice  a  week   onward, 

All  through  the  college  year 

Wrote  the  whole  section. 
"Forward,  the  paragraphs! 
Thought  out  with  care!"  he  said. 
Into  a  valley  drear 

Plunged  the  whole  section. 

"Forward,  the  paragraphs!" 
Was  there  a  student  dazed? 
Not  though  he  knew  full  well 

Some  could  not  write  fiction: 
Theirs  not  to  make  reply, 
Theirs  not  to  reason  why, 
Theirs  but  to  write  or  try. 
Into  the  valley  of  thought 

Turned  the  whole  section. 

Paper  to  right  of  them, 
Paper  to  left  of  them, 
Paper  in  front  of  them, 

Scribbled  and  crumpled, 
Deluged  with  inky  flow, 
Bravely  they  wrote  but  slow: 
Into  the  hours  of  night, 
E'en  to  the  morning's  glow. 

Wrote  half  the  section. 

Paper  to  right  of  them, 
Paper  to  left  of  them, 
Paper  in  front  of  them, 

Scribbled  and  crumpled: 
Muddled  o'er  "good"  or  "well," 
Which  one  to  use  how  tell, 
Also  o'er  "will"  or  "shall," 
They  that  had  fought  so  well, 
Came  through  the  hours  of  night, 
Back  to  the  morning  light, 
All  that  was  left  of  them, 

Left  of  the  section. 

Shall  e'er  their  memory  fade? 
At  the  strange  plots  some  laid 
103 


All  the  class  wondered. 
Honor  the  book  they  made! 
Honor  this  English  grade, 

English   "G"    section! — Esther   Stowe. 


HER    CURE. 


Insomnia  had  me  in  its  wakeful  grasp,  and  the  night  had  become 
a  terror.  I  had  read,  walked,  smoked, — done  everything  that  might  divert 
my  mind  from  its  sleepless  course,  but  all  in  vain.  It  was  in  the  early 
morning  when  I  finally  gave  up  in  despair,  and,  dressing,  went  out 
upon  the  east  balcony.  The  moon  was  just  sinking  below  the  horizon, 
a  great  ball  of  phosphorescent  fire,  tingeing  the  landscape  a  tawny 
blue  as  the  pale  rays  percolated  through  the  morning  mist.  The  trees 
stood  in  dusky  profile  against  the  distance-thickening  atmosphere, 
while  the  moisture  dropped  in  rhythmic  measure  from  the  leaves  upon 
the  grass,  beneath. 

Below  me  a  great  rosebush  raised  its  flowered  head  and  leaned 
confidingly  against  the  old  house-wall.  Little  buds  bursting  into  inno- 
cent bloom  nodded  to  me,  waving  their  white  censors  filled  with 
heavenly  incense.  Like  the  neophytes  of  old,  they  stood  there  in  their 
white  chasubles,  with  pure  faces  raised  to  heaven,  singing  the  praises 
of  Him  on  high.  A  little  twittering  wren,  with  her  nest  beneath  the 
roofing,  awoke  and  called  her  mate  with  sleepy  chirpings.  Slowly 
Nature  awoke.  The  landscape  became  a  light  gray;  then  lighter  and 
lighter  as  the  King  arose.  Once  tired  birds  started  into  happy,  joyous 
song.  The  clarion  of  the  sunrise  sounded  his  awakening  note,  and  was 
answered  from  the  outlying  cottages.  The  lowing  of  a  cow  for  her 
unweaned  calf  came  floating  down  upon  the  wind  from  a  distant  farm. 
That  harbinger  of  old  Sol,  the  milkman,  drove  slowly  by,  asleep  upon 
his  hard,  uncushioned  seat.  Suddenly  a  bright  effulgence  burst  forth 
and  the  day  had  come.  Down  at  the  end  of  the  long,  tortuous  streak 
of  mist,  which  still  hung  above  the  winding  river,  the  bright  rays  of 
the  morning  sun  shot  high  into  the  air,  illuming  all  the  cerulean  vault 
above  me. 

With  sleepy  step,  I  turned  to  my  now  inviting  room,  and,  soothed 
by  my  only  mother,  nature,  fell  asleep. — R.  B.  Dennis. 


"THE  RECORDING  BARD." 

No  man's  cup  of  experience  is  full  till  he  has  been  the  secretary 
and  "recording  bard"  of  a  county  fair.  I  once  occupied  this  exalted 
position,  and  now  consider  myself  quite  ready  for  the  presidential 
chair  or  a  padded  cell  at  Kankakee.  I  really  had  no  evil  intentions. 
for  the  office  was  thrust  upon  me  by  an  admiring  public.  On  the  first 
day  of  the  fair  I  was  seated  at  my  desk,  expectantly  awaiting  the  mad 

104 


throng  with  their  multitudinous  exhibits.  I  had  fondly  imagined  my- 
self bidding  the  people  a  cheery  "Good  morning"  in  my  most  unctious 
tone.  Then,  after  chatting  a  few  moments,  I  had  expected  to  register 
their  exhibits  in  one  of  the  many  books  about  me  with  neatness  and 
dispatch,  as  they  read  from  a  well  prepared  list.  We  must  all  dream 
our  dreams.  Only  one  man  had  a  list,  and,  as  his  wife  had  written 
that,  he  could  not  read  it.  By  the  time  I  had  deciphered  this  (I 
learned  more  from  this  paper  about  jams,  jellies,  and  preserves  than 
any  ten  men  ought  to  know)  there  was  a  motley  crowd  in  the  little 
office.  A  little,  weazened  old  man,  with  a  big  pumpkin  hugged  tight 
against  his  stomach,  then  stepped  up  and  deposited  the  huge  vegetable 
on  the  ink  bottle. 

"Say,  Mister,  I  want  to  enter  this  thing."  It  was  duly  entered, — 
after  I  had  rescued  the  ink.     He  asked  me  thirteen  questions. 

Then  a  woman,  who  had  been  indiscriminately  crazy  for  years  on 
the  subject  of  fancy  embroidery,  advanced  and  proceeded  to  arrange 
upon  my  desk  seventy-three  articles  of  her  own  wonderful  handiwork. 
It  was  truly  an  imposing  display.  I  lost  four  pounds  during  this  ses 
sion,  and  learned  that  her  daughter  had  endocarditis.  She  pronounced 
this  "Indockerdeetis."  I  afterward  gathered  from  the  doctor  that  this 
was  his  fancy  name  for  a  stitch  in  the  side.  The  lace  fiend  asked  me 
thirty-three  questions. 

I  finally  disposed  of  the  crowd,  and  had  settled  back  in  my  chair, 
when  the  village  drunkard  came  in.  He  had  a  much  bedraggled  rooster 
under  one  arm,  and,  as  he  leaned  confidingly  but  unsteadily  over  the 
desk,  the  fowl  winked  knowingly  at  me. 

"Good  morning,  Parks,  want  to  enter  that  bird?" 

He  hiccoughed  an  affirmative.  Hiccoughs  are  always  affirmative. 
"What  kind  is  it?" 

"Rooster!" 

I  had  noticed  that  myself,  but  I  explained  to  him  that  I  wanted  to 
know  its  "technical"  name;  whether  it  was  a  Shanghai  or  a  Wyandotte. 
Leaning  dangerously  close  to  me,  he  said  with  an  effort,  "Frizzier." 
I  looked  up  to  see  if  the  roof  leaked.  Then  I  wiped  my  face,  and  put  up 
an  old  umbrella  that  chanced  to  be  lying  near.  Peering  cautiously 
around  the  edge  of  this  I  asked  him  to  repeat.  I  forgot  to  remove  my 
inquiring  eye,  and  two  drops  hit  me  there.  The  old  rooster  actually 
chuckled  as  my  eye  disappeared.  Then  I  yelled  at  Parks  from  behind 
my  barricade,  and  again  got  the  same  reply  with  the  same  hose  accom- 
paniment. So  I  wrote  it  "Frizzier,"  though  why  that  bird  should  be 
called  "Frizzier"  I  could  not  see,  unless  it  was  because  he  had  lost  his 
tail,  and  all  his  feathers  pointed  the  wrong  way.  He  looked  as  if  he 
had  backed  up  against  a  strong  wind,  let  all  his  tail  feathers  be  blown 
about  his  neck,  and  had  then  forgotten  to  turn  around. 

My  downfall  came  when  a  farmer  walked  in  and  asked  if  he  could 
enter  Toulouse  geese.    Now,  I  knew  that  we  could  not  have  loose  geese 

LtS5 


running  around,  even  if  there  were  but  two,  so,  with  all  the  dignity  that 
I  could  muster,  I  told  him  that,  as  we  could  not  have  them  chasing 
about  the  fair  grounds,  he  would  have  to  put  them  in  a  box. 

All  in  all,  it  was  a  delightful  day.  At  five  o'clock  I  could  not  have 
distinguished  a  Honiton  hen  from  a  Buff  Cochin  sofa-pillow,  and  that 
night  I  dreamed  that  a  drove  of  Shorthorn  pigs  and  Berkshire  cattle 
had  broken  into  the  front  yard. — R.  B.  Dennis. 


"PEG." 

"Peg"  is  a  "dead-beat."  He  is  a  liar.  He  is  a  drunkard.  He  is  a 
gambler.  He  is  all  this,  and  more.  His  only  claim  to  distinction  lies 
in  the  fact  that  he  draws  the  highest  pension  paid  to  any  private  of  the 
Civil  War.  Again,  "Peg"  is  a  wreck.  No  wrecked  and  dismantled  boat 
ever  presented  a  more  dismal  appearance  than  does  "Peg."  One  leg  is 
missing;  he  other  is  bent  and  twisted.  "Peg"  says  that  he  had  the 
fever,  and  the  leg  got  so  hot  it  "warped."  One  arm  is  entirely  gone; 
the  other  is  shaky  from  carrying  whiskey  to  a  "sole-leather"  throat. 
One*  eye  is  missing;  the  other  faintly  beams  through  the  mists  of 
dissipation  like  a  dim,  red  light.  A  Confederate  shell  did  all  this  while 
"Peg,"  a  stalwart,  six-foot  youth,  was  riding  with  orders  from  his 
general's  side. 

In  the  fall  of  '93  "Peg"  received  ten  thousand  dollars  from  the 
government.  Then  began  his  meteoric  dash  into  the  society  of  our 
summer-resort.  The  first  time  that  I  saw  "Peg"  he  was  sitting  in  a 
gayly-colored  trap  beside  a  little,  tired-looking  woman,  driving  a  newly 
acquired  trotter.  "Peg's"  new  silk  hat,  Prince  Albert  coat,  and  blazing 
shirt  stud  were  dimmed  only  by  the  bright  red  jacket  and  "grape-arbor" 
hat  of  his  meek  and  timid  wife.  Thus  attired,  and  insecurely  ensconced 
on  the  topmost  limb  of  a  cheaply  acquired  genealogical  tree,  "Peg" 
attempted  to  drive  his  way  into  the  ranks  of  the  hoi  aristoi. 

But  alas  for  worldly  ambitions!  In  three  months  every  cent  was 
gone,  and  he  was  left  to  the  cold  shade  of  his  family  tree.  To-day  he 
is  "Drunken  Peg"  again,  but  his  eye  still  gleams  in  its  spirited  way 
as  he  stumps  unsteadily  up  the  street. — R.  B.  Dennis. 


AN  UNCROWNED  MARTYR. 

The  mother-in-law  has  received  more  than  her  share  of  popular 
ridicule  and  derision.  Let  us  look  at  her  in  the  light  of  an  uncrowned 
martyr.  Does  not  the  sacrifice  that  she  makes  call  for  heroism  of  the 
kind  that  brings  forth  martyrs?  She  gives  up  the  object  of  her  affec- 
tions, the  girl  who  has  received  the  very  essence  of  the  best  years  of 
her  life,  the  daughter  around  whom  she  has  drawn  the  net  of  love  and 
tenderness,  her  all, — to  the  uncertain  care  of  another.  As  she  stands 
at  the  altar,  outside  the  light  of  the  new  love,  within  the  deepening 
shadow  of  her  loss,  what  agony  must  be  hers!      The  little  daughter 

166 


whom  Bhe  used  to  fondle  and  caress  in  the  evening  twilight,  the  'i!;:  i 
she  used  to  protect  from  the  dangers  and  temptations  of  early  youth, 
the  young  woman  of  whom  she  was  so  proud,  and  whose  confidences  she 
was  happy  to  receive, — is  gone.-  In  the  shadow  the  mother  stands. 
bravely  trying  to  conceal  her  tears.  She  sees  her  daughter  starting  on 
the  new  life,  that  life  so  full  of  joy  and  cares  and  ruined  homes,  start- 
ing bravely  and  lovingly,  but  without  a  thought  of  the  long  years  of 
maternal  heartache  and  sacrifice  behind. 

Back  to  the  empty  nest  called  home  the  mother  goes  with  her 
breaking  heart.  As  she  steps  into  the  old  room  so  full  of  the  thoughts 
of  long  ago,  now  deprived  of  its  jewel,  she  falls  to  her  knees  and  prays, 
clasping  to  her  mother  heart  the  memory  of  a  little  child.  A  drawer 
is  opened  and  she  looks  down  the  vista  of  twenty  years.  A  long  white 
dress  is  picked  up  and  pressed  to  trembling  lips,  a  toy  is  laid  reverently 
to  one  side,  a  childish  letter  is  read  through  a  veil  of  tears;  she 
opens  her  arms  as  the  image  of  her  daughter  grows  clear  in  the  hazy 
light,  and,  with  all  a  mother's  infinite  love,  strains  to  her  breast — 
nothing.  Of  such  sacrifices  of  love  and  strength  and  comfort  is  our 
life  composed.    Of  such  stuff  are  martyrs  made. — R.  B.  Dennis. 


HIS  FIRST  APPEARANCE. 

Little  Bobbie  Black  was  the  Adonis  of  our  alley.  Bobbie  had  his 
hair  brushed  three  times  a  day,  and  wore  fine  linen.  We  all  envied 
him  his  good  clothes,  yet  would  not  have  worn  them  for  anything  less 
than  a  king's  ransom.  How  neat  he  used  to  look  on  "speaking-day"'  at 
the  big  red  school-house!  Bobbie  felt  his  superiority,  and  every  boy  in 
the  block  disliked  him  with  an  intense  cordiality. 

But  there  came  a  day  in  Bobbie's  twelfth  year  that  left  us  con- 
querors. We  all  knew  how  to  milk,  and  each  of  us  drove  a  family  cow 
home  at  night,  and,  as  we  put  it  in  our  alley  vernacular,  "pailed"  her. 
Only  Bobbie  w^as  exempt.  It  was  in  the  latter  part  of  July  wrhen  he 
announced  that  his  "papa"  (a  word  we  never  used)  had  told  him  that- 
he  must  begin  to  milk  that  evening.  Of  course  we  promised  ourselves 
a  treat,  and  every  boy  on  the  street  milked  early  that  night  that  he 
might  be  on  hand. 

At  seven  o'clock  six  of  us  were  seated  on  the  alley  fence  waiting  for 
the  little  dandy  to  appear.  At  last  he  came.  A  bright  new  pail  gleamed 
at  his  side  as  he  stepped  jauntily  down  the  walk  to  the  alley.  Without 
so  much  as  giving  us  a  look  he  sat  down  beside  the  cow.  Just  then 
Tommy  Green  yelled  in  choking  accents,  "He's  on  the  wrong  side," 
and  straightway  fell  off  the  fence.  With  an  injured  look  Bobbie  made 
a  wide  detour,  and  again  sat  down.  Now  Black's  cow  was  a  kicker. 
We  had  milked  her  at  odd  times,  and  we  knew  what  to  expect.  A 
gentle  nudge  passed  along  the  fence.  With  trembling  hands  Bobbie 
began.     To  our  great  surprise  "Old  Reddy"  did  not  kick,  and  as  the 

Ib7 


pail  filled  our  hopes  fell.  We  had  given  up  in  despair  when  "Reddy" 
turned  her  head  and  looked  at  him.  We  knew  the  signal.  Six  pairs 
of  hands  involuntarily  gripped  the  fence.  Six  pairs  of  eyes  riveted 
themselves  on  that  right  hind-leg.  .  Whack!  Bobbie  lay  with  his  feet 
in  the  air  vainly  gasping  for  breath.  Now  "Reddy"  had  missed  the 
pail,  and  she  knew  it.  Again  she  kicked.  Four  quarts  of  milk  struck 
Bobbie  full  in  the  face.  The  pail  caught  under  his  chin,  and,  as  he  rose 
to  his  feet  with  the  wrecked  pail  on  his  head,  he  looked  like  a  knight 
of  old, — except  that  he  was  somewhat  too  pale  to  play  the  part.  With 
yells  of  joy  we  tumbled  from  the  fence,  and  started  home.  Our  revenge 
was  complete,  for  "Little  Lord  Fauntleroy"  was  thereafter  at  our 
mercy. — R.  B.  Dennis. 

J.   T. 

John  T.  Everts.  With  the  name  there  comes  the  picture  of  a  man 
five  feet  in  height,  three  feet  in  diameter,  and  two  feet  on  the  ground. 
John  was  so  fat  that  he  had  to  turn  sideways  to  reach  a  door-knob,  and 
his  voice  rasped  and  spluttered  in  his  throat  like  the  bubbling  of  half- 
melted  lard.  A  portentous  double  chin  hung  down  over  a  number 
eighteen  collar,  and  gave  a  porcine  dignity  to  his  face.  John  was  the 
constable,  and  he  had  cultivated  this  gravity  till  you  could  see  it  hang- 
ing about  him  in  circumambient  folds.  It  graced  him  much  as  the 
mantle  of  Elijah  would  grace  Billy  Mason.     For  twenty-seven  years 

he  had  been  the  constable  of  C ,  and  all  had  fallen  and  worshiped 

before  the  shrine  of  his  official  dignity.  At  last  he  met  his  fate.  Mrs. 
S.,  strong  of  arm,  red  of  hair,  and  virulent  of  tongue,  had  unlawfully 
unpounded  a  neighbor's  cow.  John  T.,  armed  with  a  writ  of  replevin, 
and  swelling  with  pomp  and  circumstance,  advanced  upon  the  enemy, 
expecting  to  read  the  writ  in  a  dispassionate  tone  and  then,  still  more 
calmiy,  to  lead  away  in  triumph  the  much  disputed  bovine.  But  he 
reckoned  without  the  cow,  and  without  the  fiery-headed  Jezebel.  In 
his  most  ceremonial  manner  John  advanced  to  the  barn,  and  read  the 
writ  to  the  cow  and  a  small  boy  who  chanced  to  be  playing  there. 
Then,  the  formal  business  of  the  meeting  being  over,  he  grasped  the 
short  rope  that  hung  from  the  animal's  horns,  and  started  upon  his 
triumphant  return.  As  he  stepped  outside  he  was  met  by  Mrs.  S.,  clad 
in  righteous  indignation  and  a  rich  Irish  brogue.  In  shrill  tones  she 
cried,  "May  the  vingeance  of  the  Lord  fall  upon  ye  fer  stalin'  a  poor 
widder's  cow."  Thinking  to  pacify  her,  John  raised  two  pudgy  fingers, 
and  said  in  his  most  judicial  voice,  "So  be  it,  madam,  so  be  it." 

But  the  oil  upon  the  waters  proved  to  be  inflammable.  Grasping  a 
pitchfork  she  lunged  at  him  viciously.  John,  in  his  haste  to  retreat, 
sat  down  on  the  placid  countenance  of  the  cow,  who  stood  quietly 
behind  him,  chewing  her  cud.  There  was  a  wild  flirt  of  a  cow's  tail, 
a  wilder  wave  of  a  pitchfork,  and  all  was  over  but  the  running. 
Wounded,  anatomically  and  judicially,  the  worthy  official  started  for 

168 


the  fence  with  what  leporine  swiftness  he  could  command.  In  vain! 
As  he  reached  the  low  fence  there  was  a  sudden  rush  of  feet,  and  then 
he  rose  in  the  air,  and  landed  on  his  stomach  among  the  pig-weeds. 
Slowly  he  picked  himself  up,  and  wheezed  away  up  the  dusty  road, 
while  the  cow  calmly  waved  her  tail  in  token  of  an  Irish  victory. — R.  B. 
Dennis. 


A  SKETCH. 


Vocation,  "broncho-buster."  Salary,  fifty  dollars  a  month.  Pros- 
pects, none.  Such  is  the  present  status  of  Jim  Piervence,  college-bred 
and  whiskey-ruined,  the  horse-breaker  of  the  Three  Time  Winner  ranch. 
He  is  a  conspicuous  figure  as  he  leans  indolently  against  the  adobe  hut, 
which  three  lonely  men  call  home.  Six  feet  in  height,  still  slender  and 
supple,  despite  his  forty  years,  with  one  arm  strangely  bent  at  the 
elbow,  his  legs  warped  and  bowed  by  fifteen  years  of  savage  work  in 
the  saddle,  he  is  a  necessity  of  the  western  range.  It  took  me  several 
weeks  to  break  past  the  barrier  of  his  reserve,  but  once  in  his  confi- 
dence I  wras  richly  repaid. 

"Want  to  know  how  I  got  out  here  in  this  blanked  hole?  Whiskey! 
That's  all.  Just  that  one  thing.  And  I  ain't  touched  it  in  five  years 
now.  but  it's  too  late  to  go  back,  so  here  I  stick  like  a  burr  on  a  steer's 
tail.  Howr'd  I  get  so  everlastingly  twisted?  Had  that  arm  broke  four 
times,  and  there  wasn't  a  doctor  in  fifty  miles.  Had  that  leg  broke  three 
times.  Ponies  fell  on  me,  or  else  threw  me.  Oh,  I  like  it  all  right.  I 
like  to  conquer  the  brutes;  makes  me  think  I've  got  something  in  me 
yet.  But  I  never  trust  'em,  though.  Why,  I  wouldn't  trust  one  of  them 
ornery,  slab-sided  bronchos  as  far  as  I  could  throw  him  by  the  tail. 
All  they  like  about  a  man  is  the  feel  of  him,  and  if  one  of  'em  gets  a 
good  feel  at  you  with  his  hind  foot  you  might  just  as  well  be  struck 
by  a  pile-driver.  I've  had  my  siding  caved  in  like  the  slats  on  a 
chicken-coop.  They  just  fairly  leave  a  hole  in  you.  Want  to  ride  one 
of  'em?  See  that  glass-eyed,  grasshopper  fellow  there  with  one  ear 
gone?  He's  a  nice,  gentle  one;  he  wouldn't  wiggle  that  other  ear  if 
Gabriel  blew  his  horn  in  it.    Ride  him.     We'll  all  go  to  the  funeral." 

Gently  but  firmly  I  refused,  and  with  a  short  laugh  Jim  started 
for  the  corral,  saying,  "Come  down  to-morrow  and  I'll  show  you  his 
gait.  He  has  a  movement  that  will  make  you  think  that  you're  sitting 
straddle  of  a  sawbuck  on  a  windmill,  with  a  buzz-saw  attachment  too 
derned  close  for  comfort.     So  long!" — R.  B.  Dennis. 


"OLD    BLOOMY." 

"Old  Bloomy"  is  a  college  graduate.  Years  ago  he  was  graduated 
with  honor  from  an  Eastern  university  and  sent  out  to  carve  his  name 
high  above  all  others.  This  description  will  suffice  to  show  how  and 
where  he  carved  it. 

169 


A  tall,  lank  frame,  sharp  nose,  and  penetrating  eyes  proclaim  him 
a  Yankee.  His  sodden  clothes  hang  on  his  gaunt  frame  like  a  wet 
sheet  put  out  to  dry  by  an  angry  and  inexperienced  youth.  Baggy 
trousers  bulge  in  front,  while  a  two-inch  space  above  his  shoes  reveals 
an  utter  lack  of  hose,  and  a  crying  need  of  soap  and  water.  A  twisted 
hitching  strap  serves  as  a  pair  of  suspenders,  and  over  it  a  grimy  shirt 
hangs  disconsolately.  A  greasy  felt  hat  completes  at  one  end  an  outfit 
that  a  worn  pair  of  brogans  so  inauspiciously  starts  at  the  other.  His 
voice  is  still  more  startling  than  his  attire.  It  rattles  up  from  his 
whiskey-burned  throat  like  the  dying  gasps  of  a  consumptive  bazoo.  A 
lean  and  hungry  bottle  protrudes  from  his  hip  pocket. 

He  has  carved  his  name,  but  the  waters  of  every  ditch  erase  it. — 
R.  B.  Dennis. 


"BLISTER." 


The  ordinary  man  of  the  city  likes  a  high-stepping,  long-gaited, 
slender-barreled  horse.  His  country  cousin  cares  nothing  for  speed  or 
breeding.  His  horse  must  be  able  to  go  to  the  "end  of  the  road,"  and 
back  again.  He  must  be  able  to  do  this  day  in  and  day  out.  As  "Bill" 
Williams,  our  village  sage  and,  incidentally,  livery-man,  used  to  say, 
"Them  durned  trotters  can  go  so  far  in  one  day  that  they  can't  get 
back  in  two.  I'd  rather  have  a  wall-eyed  switcher  that  could  do  her 
ten  miles  an  hour  than  a  whole  carload  of  blue-bloods." 

"Blister"  is  the  name  of  a  bay  mare  in  Williams's  barn.  But  -few 
men  care  to  go  near  her.  Those  who  have  heard  of  her,  approach  with 
an  unspoken  prayer  on  their  lips,  and  retire  with  loud  remarks  of  a 
more  pyrotechnic  nature.  "Blister"  is  not  good  to  touch;  neither  is 
she  good  to  look  upon.  A  massive  bony  head  is  set  off  with  two  large, 
crown-set,  beetle-like  eyes,  a  dangerous  gleam  in  their  milky  depths. 
"Blister"  never  turns  her  head.  She  merely  revolves  one  of  these  opal- 
ine eyes,  and  tightens  the  muscles  in  the  near  leg.  Place  this  head 
with  its  pointed  ears,  always  laid  back,  upon  a  thin,  scrawny  neck; 
place  this  upon  a  long  body,  decorated  with  a  violently  switching  tail; 
place  all  this  upon  four  slender  legs  with  mule-like  hoofs:  do  all  this 
in  your  imagination,  and  you  have  a  mental  picture  of  a  horse  that 
always  reaches  her  destination,  no  matter  what  the  distance,  the 
weather,  or  the  roads.  She  never  falters.  Hills  are  nothing:  as  long 
as  she  can  count  the  posts  she  sails  down  the  steepest  declivities ;'  and, 
as  long  as  her  driver  does  not  sleep,  she  trots  up  them.  Williams  is 
often  heard  to  say  to  a  prospective  customer,  "What,  you  don't  like  the 
looks  of  her?  Well,  I  don't  wonder!  Looks  like  a  barn  door  that's 
hangin'  by  one  hinge,  don't  she?  If  you  want  to  git  any  place,  take  her. 
— Look  out!  Don't  git  so  durned  clost!  You  git  in  the  buggy  and  I'll 
hitch  'er  up." — R.  B.  Dennis. 

170 


THREE    SCENES. 

A  little  crowd  stands  on  the  dusty  station  platform,  shaking  hands 
with  a  sturdy,  red-cheeked  country  hoy.  A  whistle  sounds  far  down 
the  road,  and  a  mother's  heart  beats  quickly  to  the  roar  of  an  oncoming 
train.  A  mother's  arms  are  thrown  about  a  son's  neck ;  a  mother's 
tears  are  shed.  Again  the  old  platform  stands  vacant  and  deserted 
through  the  long  afternoon.  The  country  has  offered  up  another  living 
sacrifice  to  the  great  city. 

*  *  ■■:■■ 

A  little  crowd  stands  in  the  dusty  court-room  of  the  Harrison 
Street  police  station,  while  a  burly  policeman  unlocks  the  manacles 
that  bind  the  wrists  of  an  unshaven,  blear-eyed  criminal.     No  heart 

beats  in  agony  as  the  judge  pronounces  sentence,  no  tears  are  shed, 

no   lamentations   heard.     With   monotonous  precision   all   is  finished. 

The  prisoner  is  led  away  to  his  long  punishment.     The  offering  of  the 

country  home  is  on  the  altar. 

*     *     * 

No  little  crowd  stands  in  the  potter's  field  at  Dunning  as  the  long 
pine  box  is  roughly  pulled  from  the  gaily-painted  wagon.  No  tears  are 
shed,  no  sounds  are  heard,  save  the  muttered  curse  of  the  driver  as 
the  box  falls  heavily  to  the  ground.  With  a  dull  thud  the  pine  coffin, 
marked  with  these  words,  "Floater.  Found  in  Lake  Michigan.  Sup- 
posed to  be  convict  number  1121,  Joliet,"  drops  to  its  final  resting-place 
in  the  long  trench.     The  sacrifice  is  complete. — R.  B.  Dennis. 


A  VICTIM  OF  CIRCUMSTANCES. 

The  June  sun  was  reflected  back  from  the  earth  in  quivering  waves 
of  heat  that  warped  and  bent  familiar  objects  into  trembling  grotesque- 
ness.  From  the  trees  in  the  pasture  came  the  call  of  a  thrush  and  the 
regular,  droning  coo  of  a  dove.  A  blue-jay  seesawed  his  noisy,  uncer- 
tain plight  across  the  green  rows  of  corn  to  his  nest  in  the  orchard, 
and  from  greater  heights  in  the  blue  above,  the  cawing  of  a  crow  came 
down,  almost  modulated  into  music  by  its  filtering  through  the  maze 
of  sunlight  and  breezes.  But  all  was  still  and  motionless  to  the  boy 
who  sat  on  the  beam  of  his  plowr,  with  his  sunburnt  chin  resting 
on  one  brown  hand,  and  his  eyes  looking  away  over  the  osage  hedge 
to  the  gray  distant  forest.  Shutting  out  the  familiar  sights  and 
sounds,  fancy  was  bringing  before  him  a  vision  of  distant,  venerable 
halls  that  were  revered  by  throngs  of  men,  who  in  them  during  four 
happy  years  had  learned  the  beauty  of  a  broader  life,  had  come  to 
know  the  real  joy  of  living.  For  a  moment  the  vision  lingered,  and 
he  saw  himself  as  one  of  that  happy  company  before  whom  life  was 
opening  with  new  hope  and  brightness,  for  whom  ideal  manhood  was 

171 


being  realized.  Then  the  vision  faded,  and  he  saw  again  the  fields  with 
their  unceasing  demand  for  work  and  their  grudging  promise  of 
meagre  returns.  The  traces  clinked  chain-like  as  the  horses  started 
forward,  and  across  the  fields  toward  him  came  the  swift,  black 
shadow  of  a  cloud  that,  like  a  curtain,  shut  out  the  light  of  the  sun. — 
J.  E.  Smiley. 


WHERE  ART  AND  CULTURE  FAIL. 

Slowly  back  and  forth  across  the  pillow  of  a  plain  bed  in  a  poorly 
furnished  room  was  moving  a  gray,  boyish  face.  Around  him,  half- 
revealed  by  the  light  of  the  dim  lamp,  stood  three  people — a  father, 
silent,  with  set  face,  in  the  deep  lines  of  which  the  shadows  lay  dark; 
a  mother,  whose  maternal  love  and  sorrow  outweighed  the  weariness 
of  the  night's  vigilant  care;  and  a  boy,  perhaps  a  year  younger  than 
the  one  whose  eyes  were  beginning  to  fix  themselves  on  scenes  which 
appear  only  to  those  from  whom  earth  has  faded  forever.  Not  a  word 
was  spoken.  From  somewhere  near  came  the  sound  of  a  clock  strik- 
ing four.  The  gray  light  and  the  chill  of  early  morning  stole  slowly 
into  the  room.  Outside,  the  wakening  day  noiselessly  brushed  away 
the  darkness,  and  every  sleeping  bird  and  resting  flower  woke  to  take 
its  place  in  nature's  morning  chorus,  but  the  room  was  silent  still. 
The  glow  of  the  lamp  faded  slowly  out  as  the  east  reddened,  dying  at 
last  into  a  blotch  of  flame  that  quivered  like  a  broad  reed  of  tarnished 
brass.  Finally,  as  the  leaves  on  the  trees  rustled  with  the  first  stirring 
of  the  morning  breeze,  there  came  a  flutter  as  of  invisible  wings  in  the 
window-curtains,  and  the  face  on  the  pillow  stopped  moving.  The 
father  looked  away  across  the  fields  to  the  little  churchyard.  From  a 
solitary  headstone  came  a  gleam  of  light,  keen  and  arrow-like,  but  the 
church  itself  glowed  with  the  gilding  of  the  morning  sun  like  the  walls 
of  the  eternal  city  that  came  in  apocalyptic  vision  before  the  lonely 
dreamer  in  Patmos.  The  father  turned  back  toward  the  awful  quiet 
of  the  bed.  The  mother  had  fallen  on  her  knees,  and,  as  if  to  drag 
back  her  boy  from  his  lonely  journey,  was  holding  a  chilling  hand  with 
maternal  desperation,  but  her  arm  was  about  the  other  lad,  who,  in 
boyish  weariness  and  in  ignorance  of  the  meaning  of  it  all,  had  fallen 
asleep. — J.  E.  Smiley. 


THE  AUTUMN  PARAGRAPH. 

Autumn  brings  ripened  fruit,  falling  nuts,  gorgeously-colored 
leaves,  golden  grain,  and  English  G  paragraphs.  The  three  products 
just  mentioned  are  usually  found  in  normal  quantities,  which  are 
adjusted  to  meet  the  law  of  supply  and  demand,  but  the  present  year 
has  witnessed  a  harvest  of  the  last  mentioned  commodity  such  as  the 
most  sanguine  dared  not  hope  for  earlier  in  the  season.  Were  it  not  for 
one  fortunate  characteristic  of  the  English  G  autumn  paragraph,  we 

172 


would  find  ourselves  embarrassed  by  an  inability  properly  to  care  for 
what  the  futile  brain  of  the  student  has  so  prodigally  bestowed  upon  us. 
The  fortunate  circumstance  is  the  limited  number  of  topics  discussed 
in  such  a  paragraph.  Any  one  having  heard  fifteen  or  twenty  such 
productions  knows  as  soon  as  the  subject  is  announced  that  the  follow- 
ing topics  will  be  considered:  First,  leaves;  second,  clouds;  third,  sun- 
Bet;  fourth,  atmospheric  movements,  varying  in  kind  from  the  rose- 
scented  zephyr  to  the  hurricane  black  in  the  face  with  passion.  Each 
of  these  topics  has  a  regular  method  of  treatment.  The  leaves  usually 
start  out  with  a  rustling;  somewhere  in  the  paragraph  they  turn  any 
color  but  green  as  a  result  of  causes  varying  from  fairy  kisses  to  the 
chemical  action  of  atmosphere  of  low  degree  of  molecular  activity; 
later  they  cling  fondly  to  the  mother  limb,  which  is  likely  to  toss  about 
and  moan  at  this  stage,  and  then  they  either  let  go  reluctantly  and 
flutter  down,  or  fly  giddily  away,  forgetting  parental  protection.  All, 
however,  eventually  hit  the  ground.  An  interesting  controversy  ap- 
pears at  this  point,  some  authors  preferring  to  have  the  leaves  skurry 
under  the  influence  of  a  gentle  breeze,  others  having  them  hurry  with 
a  gale  as  the  motor  force.  The  advocates  of  the  skurrying  method  had 
a  small  majority  at  last  accounts. 

The  clouds  are  dealt  with  under  two  general  heads,  big,  black 
clouds  and  gentle,  little,  fleecy  clouds.  The  purpose  of  the  former 
seems  very  well  defined,  as  but  few  cases  have  been  reported  in  which 
they  did  not  shoot  lightnings,  lash  the  lake,  knock  the  little  leaves 
down,  and  raise  a  general  disturbance.  The  fleecy  clouds,  however,  are 
apt  to  turn  out  to  be  anything  from  a  princess  in  disguise  to  a  blanket 
for  a  weary  laborer,  who  is  soothed  to  rest  by  beautiful  moralizings 
about  autumn.  The  usual  purpose  of  the  sunset  is  to  produce  a  calcium 
light  effect  well  along  toward  the  close  of  the  production.  The  peace 
of  mind  and  general  happiness  accompanying  the  appearance  of  the 
sunset  may  be  explained  by  the  fact  that  the  nearness  of  the  para- 
graph's closing  sentence  is  thus  foretold.  The  wind  has  three  specific 
purposes:  to  whisper  to  the  trees,  to  be  scene-shifter  for  the  clouds, 
and  to  move  the  leaves  as  previously  mentioned.  By  observing  these 
characteristics  and  by  waiting  any  one  can  obtain  a  real  autumn  para- 
graph at  a  very  low  price,  if  the  present  rate  of  production  is  main- 
tained.— J.  E.  Smiley. 


THE  MISFORTUNE  OF  AN  INVENTOR. 

One  of  my  brother  Will's  daily  duties  was  to  feed  several  calves. 
The  work  lacked  poetry.  There  was  nothing  in  it  which  gave  an 
aspiring  youth  an  opportunity  to  rise.  This  Will  felt  keenly  as  he 
daily  carried  to  the  calves  their  basket  of  chopped  corn.  Perhaps 
Will  read  somewhere  of  a  young  man  who,  by  using  his  head,  had 
lightened  the  labor  of  his  hands.  At  any  rate,  a  brilliant  idea  occurred 
to  him.     Why  not  arrange  a  perpetual,  automatic,  self-adjusting  calf- 

173 


feeder  by  hooking  the  short  bail  of  the  basket  over  the  head  of  the 
developing  bovine?  A  weekly  replenishing  of  the  food-supply  would 
be  all  that  was  necessary.  Time  for  thought,  reading,  and  fishing 
expeditions  to  the  creek  would  be  gained.  The  plan  was  at  least  worth 
a  trial,  and  twenty  minutes  later  a  calf  with  a  face  as  benevolent  as 
that  of  the  president  of  the  Society  for  the  Prevention  of  Cruelty  to 
Animals  found  on  lifting  its  head  that  the  basket  from  which  it  was 
feeding  was  lifted,  too.  The  bail  had  been  firmly  hooked  over  its  head 
back  of  the  stubby  horns.  The  look  of  mild  surprise  that  filled  the 
great  brown  eyes  was  wasted  on  the  inside  of  the  basket,  and  speedily 
gave  place  to  horror.  Up  into  the  air  rose  a  whirling,  bawling  mass, 
as  unlike  the  placid  creature  of  a  moment  before  as  an  avalanche  is 
unlike  a  snowflake.  Will,  who  stood  at  one  side  intently  noting  the 
success  of  his  plan,  was  unexpectedly  attacked  on  the  right  wing  by  a 
combination  of  basket,  corn,  and  calf's  head,  and  suddenly  retired 
from  the  field  in  great  disorder.  One  of  the  calves  rushed  up  to  extend 
its  sympathy  to  the  vociferous  victim  of  Will's  labor-saving  device,  and 
seemed  considerably  surprised  to  see  its  own  heels  describing  a  series 
of  circles  against  the  sky.  All  the  time  the  chief  performer  was  keep- 
ing up  a  bawling  that  would  have  made  the  shout  of  Gideon's  army 
sound  like  the  chirping  of  a  half-awakened  bird.  Suddenly  a  new  idea 
seized  the  sufferer.  From  the  neighboring  field  came  the  lowing  of 
the  cattle,  which  had  heard  his  frantic  appeals  for  help,  and  toward 
them  he  ran.  Blinded  by  the  basket,  he  could  not  see  the  picket  fence 
ahead.  One  crash,  and  it  was  all  over.  The  crushed  basket  fell  off,  and 
through  a  wide  breach  in  the  fence  the  calf  raced  away  to  join  the 
other  cattle,  while  Will  stood  mournfully  by,  contemplating  the  broken 
basket  and  wondering  what  argument  could  clear  the  inventor  of  the 
automatic  calf-feeding  machine  when  the  trial  occurred  before  the 
parental  court. — J.  E.  Smiley. 


THE  PRELIMINARIES  OP  A  VISIT  WITH  AUNT  ANN. 

Aunt  Ann  was  broad  and  beaming  of  face,  as  bountifully  blessed 
with  avoirdupois  as  she  was  generous  with  her  cookies  and  preserves. 
The  parental  promise  of  a  visit  to  the  little  brown  house  where  Aunt 
Ann  lived  was  always  sufficient  to  keep  a  small  boy  awake  most  of  the 
night  preceding  that  glorious  event.  Anticipation  was  at  its  height 
when  the  patient  old  gray  horse  started  on  his  fifteen-mile  journey 
over  the  wavering  country  road  that  led  into  the  mystical  land  where 
Aunt  Ann  lived.  The  summer  shadows  waved  back  and  forth  across 
the  yellow  dust,  and  the  heated  sand  rose  in  puffs  from  under  old  Billy's 
feet  before  Pigeon  Creek  was  reached.  That  was  the  signal  to  Grand- 
father than  the  day  was  so  warm  that  we  must  go  slowly.  Time 
dragged  as  half-familiar  points  were  passed.  Patience  was  partially 
revived  when  we  reached  the  place  where  the  road  wound  up  to  the 

174 


top  of  the  hill  that  shut  in  the  givat  river,  whose  silent  majesty- 
quieted  even  boyish  hearts.  But  all  the  time  there  was  before  us  a 
picture  of  a  great  cottonwood  tree  standing  protector  over  the  little 
house  in  the  patch  of  green  lawn.  At  last  the  top  of  the  tree  appeared 
over  the  windings  of  Bird  Slough,  then  the  roof  of  the  house  came 
into  view,  and  finally  at  the  kitchen  window  we  saw  a  luminous  face, 
whose  warm  glow  was  not  in  the  least  dimmed  by  the  patch  of  flour  on 
one  cheek.  Aunt  Ann  did  not  pause  for  dainty  preparation  to  receive 
her  visitors,  and  yet  from  the  silken  screen  of  courtly  lady's  veil  never 
appeared  a  fairer  face  than  the  one  that  came  out  red  and  glowing 
from  the  burnishing  of  the  g'ngham  apron,  and  never  did  the  recog- 
nition of  a  queen  afford  the  satisfaction  that  we  derived  from  Aunt 
Ann's  "Well,  now,  bless  my  boys!  And  how  are  my  little  men?" 
The  preliminaries  of  the  visit  were  completed. — J.  E.  Smiley. 


THE  EMOTIONS  AROUSED  BY  THE  BELL  OF  THE  UNIVERSITY 

CLOCK. 

The  emotions  vary  with  the  time  and  the  person  concerned.  When 
the  clock  strikes  eight  in  the  morning,  the  faces  of  the  students  in 
the  recitation  room  which  the  professor  has  not  yet  entered,  tell  a 
very  different  story  from  that  expressed  by  the  countenance  of  the 
professor  himself,  who  is  attempting  to  maintain  an  appearance  of 
self-possession  and  profundity  of  thought  not  exactly  in  keeping  with 
the  speed  writh  which  he  mounts  the  st,airs.  The  students  hope  that 
the  professor  will  be  tardy  ten  minutes;  the  professor  that  he  can 
look  as  if  the  tardiness  had  been  caused  by  an  unexpected  interview 
with  the  president.  Wait  near  the  library  at  chapel  time.  The  group 
of  young  women  who  are  "rushing"  a  possible  future  sorority  *ister, 
express  an  admiration  for  the  dear  old  bell,  whose  twelve  strokes  tell 
them  that  for  the  twenty  minutes  of  chapel  time  the  candidate  will 
be  safe  from  the  horrid  girls  of  the  opposing  forces,  but  the  young 
man  who  has  run  all  the  way  from  Maple  Avenue  to  secure  another 
chapel  credit,  reaching  the  iron  fence  just  in  time  to  hear  the  same 
twelve  strokes,  bestows  upon  the  bell  and  everything  else  in  sight 
epithets  that  make  you  think  that  somehow  he  really  ought  to  be 
allowed  to  get  into  chapel  even  if  he  is  late.  But  if  you  would 
experience  the  whole  range  of  emotion  allowed  to  humanity,  go  to  sleep 
some  night  with  the  firm  determination  to  rise  when  the  clock  strikes 
six  next  morning  in  order  to  prepare  the  lesson  due  at  eight  o'clock. 
It  seems  very  dark  when  you  wake,  and  you  wonder  what  time  it  is. 
All  at  once  a  deep  note  comes  in  from  somewhere.  You  realize  that 
the  sentinel  in  University  Hall  is  calling  the  hour.  The  stroke  seems 
so  solitary  that  you  think,  "One  o'clock.  Five  more  hours  to  sleep;" 
just  then  another  stroke  comes.  You  try  to  imagine  that  there  was 
a  suggestive  falling  infection  about  it,  and  just  then  the  third  stroke 

175 


sounds.  That  is  too  close  for  comfort,  and  you  raise  yourself  on  one 
elbow  as  if  to  stop  the  thing  before  it  can  go  farther.  With  the 
fourth  stroke  it  all  dawns  on  you.  It  is  midnight,  and  the  clock  is 
just  one-third  through  its  announcement.  What  a  comfort!  Let  the 
old  thing  ring  till  it  is  tired.  With  all  your  certainty,  however,  you 
count  two  more  strokes,  and  then  wait  for  another  in  a  wretched 
silence.  Your  head  goes  back  on  the  pillow.  There  is  no  use  to  hope. 
It  is  just  six  o'clock,  no  more  and  no  less.  You  feel  mistreated, 
wronged,  oppressed.  You  recall  the  time  when  a  friend  deliberately 
slighted  you,  and  you  wonder  how  he  will  feel  when  in  a  little  while 
you  return  home,  a  wreck  from  overwork,  soon  to  be  laid  away  in 
the  graveyard  where  so  many  good  friends  have  preceded  you.  Will 
he  weep?  No  matter,  though.  Life  is  full  of  delusion,  anyhow.  It 
doesn't  pay.  Why  couldn't  that  clock  have  stopped  at  five,  anyhow? 
In  a  little  while  it  strikes  seven,  and  then  there  is  no  time  for  further 
emotion. — J.  E.  Smiley. 

ONE    PHASE    OF   OUR   CIVILIZATION. 

It  is  a  sad  comment  on  our  civilization  that  the  appearance  of  a 
drunken  man  is  almost  sure  to  be  met  with  laughter  on  the  part  of 
all  spectators,  and  the  meaningless  babble  of  a  fool  crazed  by  drink  is 
considered  extremely  funny.  It  seem  to  be  entirely  forgotten  that 
the  drunken  man  is  the  victim  of  a  disease  or  appetite  so  strong  as 
to  lead  him  deliberately  to  abdicate  his  reason,  and  that  he  is  the 
product  of  a  system  which  ought  to  put  to  shame  every  honest  man. 
Not  only  to  the  evidently  thoughtless  does  drunkenness  appeal  as  a 
jest,  but  men  who  declaim  loudly  against  the  general  evil  of  intem- 
perance, when  brought  face  to  face  with  the  specific  product  of  the 
evil,  ate  more  inclined  to  give  way  to  laughter  than  to  pity  the  unfor- 
tunate and  seek  to  aid  him.  Where  is  the  man  who  does  not  tell  a 
story  of  the  amusing  antics  of  a  drunkard,  and  where  is  the  woman 
who  will  not  laugh  at  the  story?  When  a  near  friend  becomes  the 
object  of  laughter,  men  rise  up  tearfully  to  clamor  for  the  prayers 
and  votes  of  other  men  to  rescue  him.  But  until  the  danger  strikes 
near  home  it  is  different.  Let  us  not  boast  of  refinement  nor  lay 
claim  to  civilization  until  we  quit  considering  our  fools  funny. — J.  E. 
Smiley. 


WOMEN  SHOULD  HAVE  POCKETS. 
In  this  day  and  age,  when  such  questions  as  equal  suffrage  and 
"uniform  wages  for  both  sexes"  are  being  agitated,  when  "equality" 
is  the  watchword,  and  when  woman  is  aping  her  brother,  "mine  eye 
hath  not  yet  beheld,  nor  mine  ear  e'er  heard"  anything  on  the  subject 
of  pockets  for  the  gentler  sex.  If,  as  was  here  maintained  on  Thurs- 
day, women  ought  not  to  be  wage  earners,  but  should  be  indebted 
to  fathers  and  to  brothers  for  every  spool  of  thread    and  for  every 

176 


paper  of  pins,  then,  surely,  pockets  would  be  a  "superfluity  of  naughti- 
ness," and  the  "same  old"  purse  would  be  sufficiently  large  for  their 
wealth.  Yet  women  are  wage  earners;  and,  in  order  that  they  may 
also  become  "wage  savers"  "as  were  their  fathers  before  them,"  they 
should  have  a  number,  say  sixteen,  capacious  receptacles  in  which  to 
stow  away  bankbills,  bonds,  mortgages,  and  stocks,  as  well  as  smaller 
change.  What  else  can  a  woman  do  with  her  money  than  to  spend 
it  for  beautifying  herself  and  her  home?  But  even  if  she  does  save 
for  the  proverbial  "rainy  day,"  her  money  goes  for  an  umbrella,  when 
she  is  no  better  off  than  before.  "All  will  surely  agree  in  vot- 
ing pockets  for  women  so  that  they  may  both  save  their  money  and 
be  "like  unto"  man. — Marguerite  J.  Mayr. 


THE  WEATHER  SHOULD  NOT  BE  TABOOED  AS  A  SUBJECT  OF 

CONVERSATION. 

When  a  man's  conversation  is  supposed  to  have  reached  the  climax 
of  insipidity  and  the  acme  of  the  common-place,  it  is  an  accepted  fact 
that  the  topic  should  be  the  weather.  Anyone  who  dares  to  mention 
this  time-honored  subject  is  pitied  by  the  kind-hearted  as  a  sort  of 
conversational  imbecile,  is  shunned  by  the  man  who  likes  to  talk  only 
on  elevating  matters,  and  is  fined  five  cents  at  the  Coffee  Club.  Yet 
this  attack  upon  the  weather  as  a  topic  of  conversation  is  not  well 
founded.  Now  it  must  be  admitted  that  any  subject  of  general  interest 
is  a  good  one  to  talk  about,  and  the  weather,  affecting  the  manners,  the 
customs,  the  lives,  the  attainments,  the  progress,  the  temper  of  every 
human  being,  must  certainly  be  a  matter  of  the  most  universal  interest. 
Again,  a  topic  of  conversation  should  be  one  which  allows  of  a 
variety  of  opinion.  Surely,  the  weather  which  is  good  for  the  corn 
and  bad  for  the  potatoes,  bright  for  a  picnic  but  dry  for  a  garden, 
cold  for  an  old  man  and  warm  for  a  young  one,  all  at  the  same  time 
and  in  the  same  place,  gives  ample  opportunity  for  a  diversity  of  opin- 
ion, and  supplies  a  subject  fertile  in  its  possibilities  for  discussion 
and  argument.  Besides  being  of  a  nature  to  admit  discussion,  a 
subject  to  talk  about  should  not  be  so  new  that  no  one  knows  any- 
thing about  it  or  so  old  that  everybody  knows  all  about  it.  The 
subject  of  the  weather  is  new,  new  as  the  morning  sun  and  the  last 
quivering  rain-drop,  and  yet  is  one  which  every  man  knows  some- 
thing about.  Who  is  not  fond  of  giving  his  opinion  on  the  im- 
portant question  of  whether  it  is  most  likely  to  rain  and  shine  all 
day,  or  whether  a  storm  may  blow  up  before  morning?  On  the  other 
hand,  the  weather  is  as  old  as  the  rain  and  the  sun,  the  ocean  and 
the  hills,  yet  no  one  really  knows  anything  about  it.  Who  can  tell 
what  made  the  west  wind  with  July  in  its  train  blow  last  week,  and 
the  east  wind  howl  out  from  the  lake  this  week  trailing  the  skirts 
of  winter  behind  it?     The  weather  is  a  universal  subject  and  a  subject 

177 


which  allows  difference  of  opinion;  it  is  an  old  topic  and  a  new  one; 
some  people  know  all  about  it,  and  most  know  nothing  about  it;  surely, 
it  should  not  be  tabooed  in  conversation.— Annie  L.  Dyar. 

EVERY  MAN  SHOULD  HAVE  A  GARDEN. 

Now,  when  the  grass  is  soon  to  fill  in  the  ground-work  of  its 
green  carpet  with  a  design  done  in  dandelions,  when  the  earth,  fra- 
grant with  potential  life,  is  ready  to  let  him  who  wields  a  spade  envy 
the  lusty  angle-worm  that  burrows  in  its  rich,  brown  bosom,  the  soul 
of  any  man,  not  city  born  and  bred,  should  thrill  with  the  desire  to 
'.'make  garden."  Let  him  who  scorns  the  hoe  and  the  watering  pot 
reconsider  his  determination  to  allow  the  green-house  and  the  grocery- 
store  the  privilege  of  supplying  the  family  with  pansies  and  green- 
corn  and  think  of  the  advantages  of  having  a  garden  of  one's  own  to 
enjoy  and  to  weed.  One  of  the  most  apparent  of  these  advantages 
is  the  garden's  aesthetic  value.  It  is  a  joy  to  see  things  grow,  and 
rows  of  brisk  little  corn-tops  and  saucy  white  pea-blossoms  lend  a 
charm  to  a  back-yard,  which  ash-piles  and  tin  cans  cannot  give  in 
any  artistic  arrangement  whatsoever.  With  a  charming  view  from 
the  back-windows  it  becomes  easier  to  be  generous;  and,  with  the 
impulse  of  generosity,  comes  the  means  for  indulging  the  good  emo- 
tion; for  the  garden  always  supplies  summer-squashes  and  beets  in 
abundance,  which  satisfactorily  fill  a  basket  for  a  neighbor,  even  if 
the  green-peas  and  strawberries  do  not  meet  the  great  expectations 
aroused  by  the  perusal  of  the  florist's  catalogue. 

While  reducing  his  grocery  bill  and  cultivating  a  spirit  of  unsel- 
fishness, a  man  may  also  -spare  himself  the  expense  of  a  summer 
outing.  Hoeing  is  as  good  for  the  back  as  rowing;  pulling  pig-weed 
is  unsurpassed  by  golf  in  the  play  it  gives  to  the  arm  muscles;  and 
the  July  sun  will  bestow  the  finishing  touch  of  tan  with  equal  readiness 
in  back-yard  or  mountain-valley.  A  garden  cultivates  the  aesthetic 
nature,  feeds  the  family  and  encourages  a  spirit  of  generosity,  lessens 
the  grocery-bill  and  does  away  with  the  necessity  of  a  summer  vaca- 
tion; surely,  every  man  should  plant  seed  and  pull  weeds  the  coming 
summer. — Annie  L.  Dyar. 


A    TRULY    MODEST    PERSON    IS    AN    IMPOSSIBILITY. 

In  this  age  of  independence  and  determined  ambition  a  so-called 
modest  person  is  indeed  rare,  while  a  truly  modest  person  is  an  im- 
possibility. If  by  modesty  we  mean  a  characteristic  of  one  who  puts 
his  own  views,  talents,  and  deeds  into  the  background  and  who  places 
the  highest  estimate  upon  the  wishes  and  opinions  of  others,  we  shall 
find  that  such  a  characteristic  is  never  found  in  human  life.  More- 
over, it  will  be  seen  that  in  many  cases  supposed  modesty  is  merely 
a  mild  form  of  unconscious  egotism. 

178 


For  example,  a  person  enters  a  room  crowded  with  people,  and, 
taking  no  share  in  the  conversation,  he  sits  quietly  in  a  corner.  01 
course,  this  man  will  pass  for  a  modest  and  timid  person,  and  yet  in  all 
likelihood  he  has  been  complimenting  himself  that  he  was  the  only 
sensible  one  in  the  room;  and  as  is  clear,  he  has  shown  his  egotism 
by  preferring  to  be  alone  rather  than  to  share  a  friendly  chat  with 
his  neighbors.  Again,  a  noted  singer  being  requested  to  favor  the 
company  with  a  song,  under  pretense  of  modesty,  humbly  declines. 
Here,  as  in  other  cases,  self  has  again  pushed  to  the  foreground,  and 
has  domineered  over  the  opinions  of  those  present.  Again,  for  the 
sake  of  illustration,  a  poet,  who,  after  receiving  genuine  applause 
from  his  friends,  whom  he  has  favored  by  allowing  them  to  read  his 
poems,  still  hesitates  to  bring  his  efforts  before  the  world.  Here 
again,  his  conduct,  though  considered  a  case  of  extreme  modesty,  shows 
rather  that  he  values  his  own  judgment  far  above  that  of  his  kind 
and  anxious  friends. 

Therefore,  since  in  all  cases  of  apparent  modesty  there  is  a  conflict 
between  the  appreciation  of  one's  own  talents  and  at  the  same  time, 
the  opinion  of  others,  the  truly  modest  person  is  an  impossibility. — 
Lulu  Melzer. 


WOMEN   ARE    NOT   LESS   COURTEOUS   THAN   MEN. 

At  present,  it  is  unusual  rather  than  usual,  for  men  to  offer  their 
seats  on  the  street-car  to  ladies.  "For,"  they  say,  "we  have  to  work 
hard  all  day  long,  wrhile  they  shop  and  visit."  Now,  this  is  not 
strictly  true;  for,  often,  the  woman  who  is  standing  is  the  one  who 
has  been  working,  and  the  man  who  is  sitting  is  the  one  who  has 
been  shopping  and  visiting.  Besides,  a  woman  needs  the  seat  more; 
for  did  not  our  great  poet  and  dramatist  say  that  the  name  of  fraility 
is  woman?  Again,  men  argue  that  they  do  not  get  thanked  for  giving 
up  their  seats  to  women.  Now,  I  have  myself  particularly  noticed 
that,  when  this  occurred,  it  was  because  the  men  did  not  give  the 
women  a  chance  to  thank  them,  but  immediately  turned  their  backs 
upon  them.  It  certainly  must  be  admitted  that  no  one  can  smile 
her  sweetest  at  the  unresponsive  back  of  a  man's  coat. 

Nevertheless,  we  women  would  gladly  stand  in  the  cars  if  the 
men  would  give  us  half  a  chance  to  get  a  seat  in  the  first  place.  But 
no;  at  the  end  of  the  line,  where  all  the  passengers  enter  at  once, 
the  men  run  to  meet  the  car,  and  board  it  while  it  is  still  in  motion. 
When  it  stops,  the  women  get  on,  and  find  all  the  seats  occupied  by 
men.  Something  must  be  wrong,  when  you  enter  a  car  and  find 
nobody  but  men  sitting    and  nobody  but  women  standing. 

Moreover,  when  cripples  or  old  people  enter  a  crowrded  car,  nine 
times  out  of  ten  the  ones  to  offer  them  seats  are  ladies.  As  to  crowd- 
ing passages  and  blocking  up  sidewalks  "I  could  to  you  a  tale  unfold" 

IT.* 


concerning  the  men,  but  1  have  already  written  two  hundred  and 
ninety-three  words,  and  I  think  that  I  have  said  enough  to  show  that 
women  are,  at  least,  not  less  courteous  than  men. — Leonie  T.  Lyon. 


VARIETY   IS   THE    SPICE   OF  LIFE. 

How  dull  and  monotonous  the  work  "down  town"  becomes,  is 
known  to  all  who  have  ever  met  and  talked  with  a  man  who  spends 
his  life  in  one  of  the  tall  office  buildings.  Every  one  must  acknowledge 
that  such  a  life  is  very  unsatisfactory  and  that  the  woman  who  has 
a  household  under  her  care  has  a  much  easier  time.  But  it  is  very 
soon  seen  why  the  woman  does  not  lose  her  beauty,  does  not  become 
round-shouldered,  and  is  not  always  cross  and  crabby,  as  her  hus- 
band is  apt  to  be.  She  has  a  variety  in  her  work:  one  day  she 
washes,  the  next  day  she  irons,  the  next  day  she  mends,  and  so 
on  through  the  week.  This  same  wise  woman  goes  calling,  shopping, 
belongs  to  a  club,  and  does  numerous  other  things  outside  the 
routine  of  her  daily  work.  But  her  husband  has  none  of  this  variety. 
Indeed,  his  business  must,  necessarily,  be  more  or  less  the  same  every 
day;  but  at  night  when  he  returns  home,  instead  of  tiring  his  brains 
still  more  by  reading  the  newspaper,  if  he  were  to  help  his  wife  with 
the  dinner,  he  would  find  himself  much  benefited.  Besides,  by  getting 
the  salt,  sugar,  or  perhaps  the  butter,  or  by  setting  the  table,  or  by 
doing  anything  which  would  give  him  bodily  exercise,  he  would 
"work  up"  a  surprisingly  good  appetite.  Then,  after  dinner,  instead 
of  repeating  history  by  sitting  down  to  smoke,  he  might  wash  the 
dishes,  put  the  kitchen  to  rights,  fix  the  furnace,  and  put  out  the 
milk-bottle.  After  that,  he  could  take  an  evening  walk  in  company 
with  his  wife  or  his  cigar,  and  get  the  fresh  air  he  needs  so  badly. 
If,  then,  the  irritable  and  "grouchy"  man  so  well  known  to  us,  were 
to  act  as  wisely  as  does  his  cheerful  and  youthful  wife,  he  would 
find  a  variety  in  his  every  day  work  which  would  be  a  new  spice  in 
life. — Bess  Davis. 


SHEPPARD  FIELD  SHOULD  BE  HEATED. 

All  of  us  have  sat  out  on  the  "bleachers"  at  Sheppard  Field,  and 
have  shivered  through  a  ball-game  or  a  track-meet.  In  case  of  de- 
feat, nothing  could  be  more  disconsolate  and  dismal  than  that  de- 
pressed, half-frozen  sensation  which  impresses  itself  on  one  as  he 
stiffly  rises  from  his  seat,  and  stumbles  toward  the  gate;  and  a  bad 
cold  even  takes  some  of  the  brilliant  lustre  from  a  victory.  The 
frigidity  of  the  atmosphere  causes  a  loss  to  the  players,  too,  for  prob- 
ably innumerable  well-meant  cheers  have  been  frozen,  as  the  con- 
versation was  in  "Baron  Munchausen,"  and,  during  the  warm  days 
of  spring,  these  yells  have  thawed  out,  and  have  "wasted  their  sweet- 

180 


ness  on  the  desert  air"  when  there  was  no  team  for  them  to  cheer  on 
to  victory.  Now,  if  Sheppard  Field  were  heated,  those  faithful  few 
who  attend  all  the  games  would  no  longer  suffer  from  colds,  and  such 
enthusiastic  crowds  would  be  encouraged  to  come  out  with  their  ani- 
mated, heated  cheers  that  there  would  never  be  a  chance  of  defeat 
for  Northwestern.  Besides  all  these  benefits,  the  brutality  supposed 
to  be  attendant  upon  a  foot-ball  game  might  be  lessened,  as  the 
gentle  heat  would  subdue  our  animal  natures,  which  certainly  are 
sadly  in  need  of  suppression  when,  the  day  after  the  "Syllabus"  is 
issued,  the  cartoonist  of  the  book  appears  on  crutches.  Although  there 
may  be  some  difficulty  in  bringing  about  this  great  improvement, 
surely  we  have  among  us  some  inventive  genius  who  wculd  be  willing 
to  spend  much  time  and  thought  on  a  plan  which  wculd  not  only  do 
away  with  colds  and  brutality,  but  would  cause  Nor.hwestern  always 
to  "reign  victorious  in  the  fight." — Katharine  MacHarg. 


PARAGRAPHS  SHOULD  NOT  BE  COMPULSORY. 

The  poor  student  who  finds  it  his  lot  to  write  paragraphs  is  one 
of  the  saddest  sights  on  the  campus.  He  is  continually  racking  his 
own  brains  and  even  encroaching  upon  those  of  his  friends  to  furnish 
subjects  for  his  literary  attempts.  Just  before  paragraph  day,  his 
state  is  pitiable;  he  even  feels  it  within  his  heart  to  inquire  pensively, 
"'Death,  where  is  thy  sting,'  for  tomorrow  a  paragraph  is  due?" 
No  student  should  be  forced  into  such  a  state  of  misery.  If,  on  the 
contrary,  the  student  were  asked  to  write  only  when  the  spirit  moved 
him,  think  of  the  poetic  rhapsodies  which  inspiration  would  cause 
to  well  up  in  his  heart  and  flow  in  musical  cadence  from  his  "Water- 
man's ideal  fountain  pen."  And  if,  on  the  other  hand,  the  spirit 
should  fail  to  incite  him  to  action  on  some  rare  occasion, — for,  were 
the  feeling  of  compulsion  removed,  such  occasions  would  be  very 
rare, — the  student  would  reply  simply,  when  called  on,  "My  lord,  this 
day  I  have  not  felt  within  me  the  sweet  voice  of  the  muse  calling  me 
to  wander  in  the  fields  of  poetry,"  and  he  would  be  excused.  So,  with 
this  ideal  arrangement,  there  would  no  longer  be  found  tormented 
students  writing  stupid  and  hackneyed  themes  but  a  joyful  company 
tuning  their  harps  for  inspired  melodies. — Katharine  MacHarg. 


A    "SMOKER"    SHOULD    BE    ATTACHED    TO    THE    "BLEACHERS" 
ON   SHEPPARD  FIELD. 

Much  has  been  said  about  the  discourtesy  of  women,  and,  although 
it  has  been  granted  that  they  are  superior  beings,  about  their  lack  of 
respect  for  men.  But  for  an  example  of  the  consummate  selfishness 
of  some  men,  one  need  go  no  farther  than  Sheppard  Field  on  the  day 
of   a   ball-game.     There,   after   the  men   have   taken   their   places,   the 

181 


seats  on  the  south  end  of  the  "bleachers"  are  left  for  the  women— 
and  the  wind  is  usually  from  the  north.  Now,  the  woman  who  is 
discourteous  is  an  exception,  while  the  man  who  smokes  at  a  ball- 
game  is  almost  the  rule.  Besides,  a  woman  could  not,  did  she  never 
acknowledge  a  courtesy,  cause  a  man  as  much  discomfort  as  he  will 
inflict  upon  her  for  three  successive  hours.  Moreover,  it  cannot  be 
conducive  to  enthusiasm  to  have  one's  mouth  filled  with  tobacco- 
smoke  whenever  she  opens  it  for  a  rousing  cheer.  Smoke  is  also- 
quenching  at  a  "losing"  game.  Besides,  the  muse  of  ball-games  would 
probably  be  more  propitious,  if  she  received  more  devotion  and  less 
smoke.  Since,  then,  such  discomfort  is  caused  by  this  selfish  and 
ungentlemanly  practice,  and  since  it  would  not  be  right  to  abolish 
the  men,  a  "smoker,"  where  they  may  enjoy  their  pipes — and  the 
game — to  their  hearts'  content,  should  be  attached  to  the  south  end 
of  the  "bleachers." — Marion  Holmes. 


•  THE  AMERICAN  WOMAN'S  WALK. 

American  women  need  to  be  taught  how  to  walk.  In  getting  over 
much  ground  our  women  are  a  success,  but  their  manner  of  locomotion 
is  neither  graceful  nor  dignified.  Too  much  physical  energy  is  wasted 
in  a  violent  swinging  of  arms,  and,  from  the  peculiar  and  unnatural 
direction  of  some  of  the  swinging,  one  is  led  to  believe  that  a  great 
deal  of  mental  effort  is  also  required  lest  they  forget.  This  awkward- 
ness of  gait  will  not  be  remedied  l^y  club-swinging,  basket-ball,  or 
other  exercise  of  like  sort.  Athletics  are  not  what  is  wanted.  Sweep- 
ing, scrubbing,  or  pitching  in  a  harvest  field  are  as  likely  to  be  pro- 
ductive of  grace  in  woman  as  are  the  athletic  exercises  of  her  brother. 
We  want  athletic  men  but  graceful  women.  The  much-ridiculed  Del- 
sarte  exercises  have  shown  more  good  results  in  the  improved  bearing 
of  women  than  have  the  more  violent  exercises  whose  aim  is  the 
development  of  muscular  strength.  Watch  the  women  as  they  pass, 
and  count  those  who  walk  on  their  heels,  head  thrust  forward,  arms 
swinging  violently.  What  a  pity  you  can't  suspend  them  somewhere 
long  enough  to  discover  what  is  that  "fixed  rate  determined  by  their 
length"  which  Holmes  asserts  is  natural  to  the  limbs!  Then  count 
those  whom,  as  an  unprejudiced  observer,  you  would  call  graceful. 
You  will  find  that  the  latter  are  not  one-tenth  of  the  whole  number. 
Poor  things!  It  is  not  their  fault.  They  try  hard  enough,  as  is 
evident  from  the  different  gaits  they  cultivate — from  the  fads  in 
walking.  But  they  "are  copying  vices  rather  than  virtues.  To  avoid 
this  waste  of  energy,  then,  in  making  of  walking  too  violent  an  exer- 
cise, in  having  to  bear  constantly  in  mind  the  desired  tilt  of  the 
body  and  the  scythe-swinging  motion  of  the  arms,  every  young  woman 
should  be  taught  such  exercises  as  will  result  in  a  dignified  bearing 
and  a  graceful  gait. — M.  J.  Lombard. 

182 


EXTRAVAGANCE    IS    THE   RESULT   OF    WAGE-EARNING. 

Girls  who  have  always  been  dependent  on  others  for  everything, 
who  have  not  had  the  experience  of  even  handling  money,  find  them- 
selves suddenly  with  from  fifty  to  eighty  dollars  a  month  at  their 
disposal  and  a  number  of  long  cherished  plans  or  ungratified  desires. 
Now,  unless  they  start  their  professional  career  with  a  debt  on  their 
hands,  or  with  an  unusual  amount  of  determination  and  the  resolu- 
tion to  lay  by  a  definite  amount  every  month,  each  pay-day  will  find 
them  penniless,  if  not  in  debt.  All  the  little  novelties  in  dress  are 
so  attractive,  and  each  costs  so  little!  But  alas!  "Many  a  mickle 
makes  a  muckle,"  and  a  desire  for  keeping  up  with  the  fashion  is 
developed  at  the  expense  of  the  habit  of  self-denial.  No,  it  does  not 
all  go  for  dress.  The  home  is  beautified,  new  furniture  is  bought, 
the  supply  of  books  and  magazines  is  increased;  but  the  habit  of 
saving  and  the  discipline  of  self  denial  have  been  lost.  The  woman 
who  would  have  sternly  schooled  herself,  all  her  life,  to  stifle  her 
longings,  dress  plainly,  live  simply,  and  spend  the  greater  part  of 
the  day  at  home,  is  now  independent  of  restriction,  and  finds  her 
desires  increased  and  her  horizon  broadened  to  such  an  extent  that 
the  alternative  of  staying  at  home  and  depending  on  father  or  brother 
for  support  has  become  too  humdrum  for  endurance.  Study  the  mat- 
ter in  whatever  country  or  in  whatever  condition  of  society  you  may, 
and  you  will  find  that  the  woman  who  earns,  a  salary  has  more  wants 
than  she  who  is  dependent  on  another  for  every  spool  of  cotton  and 
for  every  paper  of  pins.  And  for  every  wish  that  she  gratifies,  a 
dozen  others  arise.  Then  will  you  bow  your  head  sadly  and  agree  that 
to  them  who  gratify  many  desires  more  shall  be  given. — Mary  Joy 
Lombard. 


WOMEN    SHOULD    SAVE    TWINE. 

All  young  women  can  not  become  the  wives  of  millionaires.  In- 
deed, the  great  majority  must  live  contented  in  much  humbler  posi- 
tions. To  these,  especially,  the  careful  saving  of  ordinary  wrapping 
twine  will  prove  an  aid  and  a  benefit. 

Because,  in  the  first  place,  always  to  have  in  a  convenient  drawer 
or  box  a  neat  ball  of  string  will  save  both  time  and  temper.  Then 
the  precious  moments  of  Monday  morning  will  not  be  lost  in  a  vain 
search  for  a  cord  with  which  to  tie  up  the  husband's  laundry.  The 
children,  too,  knowing  where  they  can  find  the  twine  necessary  for 
their  many  small  enterprises,  will  not  come  running  into  the  parlor 
while  the  clergyman  is  calling,  nor  will  they  disturb  their  mother 
when  she  is  suffering  from  a  head-ache.  Thus  many  of  those  provok- 
ing incidents  that  too  often  ruffle  the  family  calm  will  be  avoided. 

But,  besides  these  immediate  gains,  a  ball  of  twine  means  future 
good,  for  lessons  of  neatness  will  be  learned.     The  clean  home,  how- 

l  :; 


ever  small  and  mean,  is  inviting.  Needless  to  say,  the  woman  who 
carefully  picks  up  every  piece  of  string  will  not  allow  bits  of  thread 
and  of  cloth  to  litter  the  floor.  A  desire  for  cleanliness  in  all  things 
will  prevail,  and,  to  the  joy  of  her  husband,  she  will  gain  the  enviable 
reputation  of  a  good  house-keeper. 

Economy,  too,  is  a  necessary  result  of  this  habit.  How  many  a 
man  has  been  ruined  by  an  extravagant  wife!  But  she  who  watches 
her  string  will  also  watch  the  nickels  and  the  dimes,  and  will 
deliberate  carefully  before  gratifying  some  whim  with  the  earnings  of 
her  hard-working  husband.  Such  a  woman,  instead  of  being  a  check 
in  the  production  of  wealth,  is  a  positive  element. 

Thus,  by  so  simple  a  thing  as  winding  our  cheap,  every-day  twine 
into  a  compact  ball,  many  vexatious  moments  will  be  avoided;  habits 
of  neatness  and  of  economy  will  be  acquired,  the  good  results  of  which, 
extending  into  all  the  branches  of  domestic  administration,  will  tend 
to  make  the  home  what  it  should  be,  a  pleasant  and  inviting  spot  to 
the  work-worn  husband. — Louis  Clements. 


THE  WHALER. 


Five  months  out  of  New  Bedford,  the  whaler  "Ann  Burgess,"  under 
a  light  spread  of  canvas,  plows  lazily  through  the  boundless  reaches 
of  tbe  high  seas.  To  north,  to  south,  to  east,  to  west,  nothing  visible 
but  restless  waters,  which  come  rolling  up  endlessly  from  nowhere 
and  roll  on  irresistibly  to  nowhere.  The  heavy  ship,  the  only  work  of 
man  amid  that  vast  solitude  of  sea  and  sky,  meets  the  long  ground 
swell  lightly  as  a  water-fowl,  now  rising  slowly  to  the  crest,  her  flying 
jib-boom  pointing  heavenward,  poising  for  an  instant,  and  then  bow- 
ing gracefully  as  she  slides  down  to  the  next  swell  and  buries  her 
nose  in  it  far  above  the  cable  slots.  Her  decks,  flooded  with  morning 
sunlight  and  printed  with  the  shadows  of  the  huge  canvas  squares 
overhead,  are  almost  deserted.  Against  the  forecastle  bulwarks,  in 
various  uncouth  attitudes,  with  hats  over  their  faces,  lie  a  few  men 
dozing  in  the  warm  sunshine.  Their  garments  are  unique.  Tattered 
shirts  so  bepatched  with  odd  pieces  that  the  original  color  is  lost, 
greasy  trousers  strapped  up  with  leathern  belts  or  bits  of  cordage, 
all  manner  of  footwear  from  cowhide  boots  to  the  nude — one  would 
think  them  a  crew  of  beggars.  We  look  expectantly  to  the  poop  to 
see  what  the  officers  may  be.  Only  three  men  are  in  evidence  there 
besides  the  man  at  the  wheel.  A  person  in  no  respect  differing  in 
appearance  from  those  on  the  forecastle  lies  sprawled  out  asleep 
against  the  grating,  while  the  third  individual,  a  short,  heavy-faced 
man  in  a  sou'wester  and  a  faded  swallow-tail  coat,  paces  slowly  up 
and  down  and  shoots  tobacco  juice  over  the  rail.  Judging  by  these 
lifeless  decks,  this  sleeping  crew,  and  the  general  air  of  negligent 
repose,  we  might  say  that  the  ship,  with  her  monotonous  lifting  and 

184 


falling,    like    the    blue    surges    upon    which    she    floats,    is    hound    tor 
nowhere.      And   such    is   the    truth,   for   she    is   an    old-time   whaler,   a 
roving  hunter  of  the  seas.     But  do  not  think  that  she  is  quite  asleep, 
for  like  a  hunter  she  must  have  one  eye  open  at  all  times.     If  you  look 
away   up  on  the  foretop  gallant  mast,  almost  to  the  truck,  you  will 
see  a  man  standing  on  a  tiny  crosspiece  and  lashed  with  a  belt  to  the 
spar.    With  the  roll  of  the  ship  he  sways  in  a  wide  arc  against  the  blue 
heavens.     He  is  the  eye.     Suddenly  he  bends  over,  sets  his  hand  to  his 
mouth,  and  his  voice  comes  bawling  down.     "There  she  blo-o-o-o-ws!" 
Instantly  the  decks  are  alive.     Out  of  the  hatchway  the  men  swarm 
like  rats  from  a  flooded  cellar.     They  leap  into  the  chains  and  up  the 
shrouds  and  scramble  for  places  at  the  rail.     The  captain  comes  tum- 
bling up  with  a  telescope  in  his  hand  and  calls,  "Where  away?"     The 
voice  answers,  "Sou'-sou'-east,  off  the  port  quarter."     All  hands,  stare 
in  the  direction  indicated,  and  excited  voices  call  "she  blows"!    when 
dark  spray  columns  are  descried  against  the  white  sky-line.     The  big 
sails  are  backed,  and  the  ship  swings  up  into  the  wind.     Hoarse  yells 
proclaim  the  necessary  orders,  and  the  boat-crews  vie  with  each  other 
in   getting  away.     The   motley   throng  work   like   madmen,   but  with 
perfect  precision.    Canvases  are  whipped  off,  blocks  rattle,  lines  creak, 
the    long    whaleboats    strike    the    water    simultaneously    with    a    loud 
swash,  and  every  man  drops  into  his  place.     The  oars  are  lifted  and 
fall  into  their  sockets  together,  the  rowers  give  way,  the  oars  bend, 
the  spray  flies,  the  boats  forge  ahead.     We  watch  them  receding,  now 
on  the  top  of  .a  wave,  now  sunk  in  the  trough,  and  now  up  again,  the 
rowers  swaying  rhythmically,  the   picturesque  figures  of  the  steerers 
bending  to  their   long  sweeps,   and   their   measured  "ho,  ho"   ringing 
back    musically,    fainter    and    ever    fainter    across    the    waters — A.    G. 
Terry. 


ONE   BOY'S    VIEW   OF   LIFE. 

Young  Larry  was  a  helpless  cripple,  and  lay  day  and  night  in  a 
small  upper  room  of  the  tenement.  Being  one  of  the  dregs  of  human- 
ity, books  were  to  him  nil,  but  pictures  afforded  him  much  amusement, 
and  whenever  his  mother  could  procure  one  of  the  gaudy  comic  sheets 
of  a  Sunday  newspaper  he  fingered  and  refingered  it  till  it  resembled 
a  newly-discovered  manuscript  from  the  Sinaitic  Peninsula.  Through 
these  eye-grasping  pages  he  learned  that  certain  races  of  men  exist 
whose  lives  are  a  continuous  vaudeville,  to  wit,  the  Irishman,  the 
"hayseed,"  the  "hoboe,"  the  Jew,  and  the  negro.  This  was  the  extent 
of  his  book-learning,  but  he  had  another  source  of  knowledge,  and 
that  was  observation.  In  the  first  place,  he  had  seen  a  great 
man  whom  they  called  the  Doctor.  This  august  personage  had  on 
one  or  two  occasions  entered  the  room  and  examined  the  cripple  care- 
fully, yet  with  a  face  as  expressionless  as  that  of  a  tailor's  dummy. 
He  wore  a  big  warm  overcoat,  and  had  gloves  and  a  watch-chain,  and 

185 


he  moved  about  very  quickly  and  silently,  never  speaking  save  in  a 
low,  unmodulated  voice.     He  had  not  called  since  the  day,  some  three 
weeks  since,  when  he  stepped  into  the  hall  and  talked  for  a  moment 
with    Larry's    mother,    who,    when    she    reappeared    some    time   after, 
showed  an  unusual   redness  about  the  eyes.     Then,  too,  Larry  could 
hear    sounds    about    him.      He    used    to    hear    loud    concussions     and 
screams    and  horrid  oaths  rising  from  a  room  below.     Once,  after  a 
terrible  uproar  there,  a   gong  was  heard  clanging  on   the  street  ou'; 
side    and  then  a  passage  of  heavy  feet  upon  the  stairs.     Larry  asked 
his  mother  about  it.   and   she   said   that  the   Italians  downstairs  ha:l 
been  fighting,  and  that  a  man  had  been  killed.     The  boy  thought  it 
over  for  a  long  time,  and  wondered  why  they  should  ever  want  to  kill 
anybody.     But  Larry's  broalest  field  of  observation  was  the  view  from 
his  window.     Through  its  tiny  square  he  could  see  a  piece  o:  slanting 
roof,  a  gutter-pipe,   a   crumbling"  chimney  with   an   old   lightning  rod 
leaning  against  it,  and  a  narrow  truncated  patch  of  sky  diagonally 
'bisected  by  a  telegraph  wire.     The  artificial  objects  became  somewhat 
wearisome,  but  the  bit  of  sky  was  a  novel  source  of  delight.     The  boy 
never  tired  of  watching  its  shifting  colors,  although  a  dirty  gray  pre 
dominated  and  kept  him  waiting  for  weary  days,  and  often  weeks,  for 
the  next  change.     Especially  charming  was  the  scene  at  n!ght  when 
the  black  was  studded  with  stars.     One  morning  Larry  awoke  and  saw 
the  roof  and  chimney  covered  with  a  mantle  of  the  purest  snow  tinged 
a  delicate  pink  by  the  rising  sun,  the  whole  intensified  by  a  sky-back- 
ground of  deep  blue.     He  gasped  with  surprise  and  rapture,  and  the 
sight  often  afterward  stood  forth  in  his  dreams  like  a  bit  of  fairy- 
land.    His  greatest  joy  came,  however,  when,  one  day,  a  white  p'geon 
appeared  on  the   roof  and   strutted  about  with  fantail  spread.     Here 
was   a   live   creature,   and   a  beautiful    one  at  that.     Larry   had  been 
much   amused  by  the   dingy  little  sparrows  that  sometimes  gossiped 
noisily  around  the  gutter-pipe,  but  this  new  white  thing  was  like  an 
angel  among  birds.     It  seemed  to  like  the  roof,  and  came  there  regu- 
larly each  day,  waddling  up  and  down,  searching  the  gutter,  craning 
its  neck  over  the  eaves,  or  dozing  in  the  sunshine  upon  the  ridge-pole. 
The   little   cripple   watched   it    till   his   eyes   swam,   and   when   it  had 
flown,  he  would  lie  breathlessly  expecting  its  return,  amusing  himself 
by  guessing  what  part  of  the  roof  it  would  alight  upon.    As  time  went 
on   the  bird  became  a  passion  with  Larry.     He  talked  to  it,  dreamed 
of  it,  imagined  it  could  talk  back  to  him,  and  that  they  two  were  old 
friends.     On  nights  when  he  could  not  sleep  for  pain,  he  was  happy 
in  thinking  of  how  soon  his  friend  would  appear  in  the  old  place  when 
daylight   should   creep   over  the   sullen   roofs  of   the  city.     One   sunny 
morning  the  pigeon   sat  en  the  ridge-pole  while  Larry  was  laughing 
and  calling  to  it.   Suddenly  there  was  a  sharp  snap,  the  bird  rolled  over 
twice,  and  lay  kicking  wildly  for  a  moment;  then  it  became  still.     Its 
body  slid  to  the  eaves  and   fell  with  a  faint  thump.     Boyish  voices 
sounded  gleefully  in  the  alley  and  died  away.     The  cripple's  face  was 

186 


white  with  horror,  and  two  big  tears  rolled  down  his  wasted  cheeks.— 
A.  G.  Terry. 

THE  OLD  MAN. 

As  the  antics  of  children  are  amusing,  no  less  are  the  ways 
peculiar  to  man  in  his  second  childhood  a  source  of  interest.  Let  us 
observe  Grandfather  as  he  sits  in  his  armchair  upon  the  little  porch. 
He  is  at  ease  in  his  old  trousers,  his  check  shirt,  and  his  ungainly  felt 
slippers.  The  light  breeze  plays  in  his  thin,  white  hair,  and  occa- 
sionally shakes  the  woodbine  above  him  in  such  manner  as  to  let 
through  a  crowd  of  dappling  sunbeams,  which  dodge  across  his 
wrinkled  face  and  vanish.  He  leans  upon  his  cane,  an  old  hook- 
handled  favorite,  yellow  with  service,  which  he  cut  from  a  hickory 
sappling  years  ago.  His  eyes  are  fixed  half  vacantly  upon  the  woods 
and  pastures  that  stretch  away  eastward.  Perhaps  he  is  thinking  of 
the  time  when  he  came  into  those  woods  with  his  young  bride  and 
began  the  struggle  with  nature.  He  glances  proudly  at  the  big  tim- 
bers of  the  house,  cleanly  hewn  with  his  axe,  and  at  the  long  stone 
walls  neatly  laid  by  his  hands.  Suddenly  a  large  fly  drops  upon  his 
knee.  Softly  he  raises  one  hand,  and,  with  a  deft  sweep,  captures  the 
trespasser,  chuckling  the  while  at  his  success.  For  five  minutes  he 
continues  this  amusement,  until  the  flies,  becoming  tired  of  the  sport, 
seek  a  less  dangerous  locality  on  the  ears  of  old  Towser,  who  lies 
sprawled  out  asleep  at  Grandfather's  feet.  The  old  man  looks  around 
and  sees  an  empty  saucer  some  feet  away  by  the  doorsill.  He  blinks 
at  it  hard  for  several  minutes;  then  turning  slowly,  he  calls  into 
the  house,  "Sairy!  hev  you  fed  the  cats  yit?"  An  affirmative  answer 
is  heard  within.  Again  he  stares  long  and  hard  at  the  bit  of  crockery. 
Finally  he  rises  slowly  from  the  chair,  hobbles  over  to  the  saucer, 
painfully  stoops,  picks  it  up,  turns,  hobbles  back  to  the  screen  door, 
fumbles  for  the  button,  opens  the  door,  and  shuffles  in.  Then  we  hear 
his  voice,  "Better  put  this  away,  hadn't  ye,  'fore  somebody  steps  onto 
it  an'  breaks  it?"  Soon  he  returns  to  the  porch  carrying  an  old  straw 
hat.  With  both  hands  he  adjusts  it  upon  his  head;  then  grasping  his 
cane  tightly,  he  proceeds  to  descend  the  steps.  He  plants  the  cane 
upon  the  first  step  below,  then  lowers  one  foot  to  the  same  level,  and 
brings  the  other  foot  after  it.  In  this  manner  arrived  at  the  bottom, 
he  gives  a  gentle  grunt,  and  begins  to  shuffle  down  the  walk,  old 
Towser  limping  along  behind.  On  the  way  he  sees  a  stick  of  wood 
lying  in  the  grass.  He  stops,  picks  it  up,  examines  it,  then  turns  and 
retraces  his  steps  to  the  woodshed,  where  he  carefully  deposits  the 
stick  in  the  proper  place  upon  a  pile  of  kindlings.  A  group  of  hens 
are  foraging  among  the  chips  by  the  chopping  block.  Spreading  his 
arms,  the  old  man  goes  after  them,  crying,  "Shoo!  Shoo!"  He  drives 
them  to  the  poultry-yard,  sees  them  scamper  through  the  gate,  closes 
it,  and  studiously  shoves  the  plug  through  the  eye  of  the  staple.    Then 

1ST 


he  resumes  his  way  to  the  barn.  By  the  wall  at  the  foot  of  the  garden 
a  small  stone  has  rolled  to  the  ground.  Grandfather  picks  it  up  and 
puts  it  back  in  its  place.  When  he  reaches  the  barn,  the  men  have 
just  come  in  with  a  load  of  hay.  Grandfather  stands  by  and  watches 
them  hoist  it  into  the  bays  in  great  bunches  by  means  of  the  horse- 
fork  and  tackle.  Soon  he  calls,  "Silas,  come  here  a  minnit!"  A  young 
fellow  on  the  load  jabs  his  pitchfork  into  the  hay,  slides  to  the  floor, 
and  comes  to  the  old  man,  who  with  his  cane  is  pointing  to  the  collar 
of  one  of  the  horses.  "Them  harness  ain't  been  buckled  right,  Silas, 
better  fix  'em  this  way."  A  long  consultation  ensues.  Finally  the 
load  is  off  and  the  men  drive  away.  Grandfather  inspects  the  barn, 
hangs  up  a  horseshoe  here  and  a  piece  of  strap  there,  and  then  turns 
his  face  toward  the  house  again.  Half  an  hour  later  we  find  him 
asleep  in  his  chair,  his  hat  and  cane  hung  carefully  upon  a  hook 
behind  him,  his  hands  folded  in  his  lap,  the  dog  snoring  at  his  feet, 
and  the  flies  buzzing  undisturbed  upon  his  knees. — A.  G.  Terry. 


A   BIT   OF   ICE. 


Not  far  from  my  window,  where  the  sidewalk  slopes  towarl  tie 
street-crossing,  lies  an  innocent  little  pool  of  water  collected  from 
the  melting  snows,  and  every  morning,  until  Sol  has  reached  a  point 
of  vantage  whence  to  direct  his  darts  effectively,  the  said  pool  is 
imprisoned  beneath  a  plate  of  the  glassiest  ice.  Like  smooth-looking 
individuals  in  general,  the  frozen  pool  is  filled  with  trickery  and 
deceit.  Unless  one  tested  its  surface  with  a  spirit-level,  he  would  be 
unable  to  perceive  that  this  ice-pond,  owing  to  the  circumstance  that 
water  from  a  huge  snow-bank  glides  over  it  during  the  day,  slants  at 
an  angle  of  some  few  degrees,  yet  such  is  the  case,  and  many  are  the 
undignified  poses  of  pedestrians  arising  therefrom.  As  I  sit  in  my 
window  I  see  the  "eight  o'clock"  student,  blue-nosed  and  hungry-eyed, 
rushing  frantically  to  his  task.  He  skips  gracefully  down  the  slope, 
and —  well  what  he  says  when  he  gets  upon  his  feet  about  four  yards 
away  is  not  exactly  polite  literature.  As  he  limps  away,  pretty  Miss 
Redcap,  a  little  freshwoman,  comes  along,  blithe  as  any  snowbird. 
She,  too,  skips  down  the  slope;  one  dainty  foot  touches  the  ice,  and 
.with  a  cute  little  squeal  she  simply  sits  down,  and  turns  as  red  as  her 
cap.  But  she  jumps  up  so  quickly  you  can't  see  how  she  does  it,  looks 
all  around  furtively,  picks  her  "March  of  the  Ten  Thousand"  from 
one  snowbank,  and  her  "Practical  Rhetoric" — which,  by  the  way,  lies 
open  at  Rule  254,  "avoid  confounding  sit  and  set" — from  another,  and 
passes  on  sedately,  having  lost  some  of  the  freshness  of  Eve  before 
the  Fall.  Now  we  see  old  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pudgworthy  returning  from 
their  boarding-house  around  the  corner.  These  good  people  waddle 
along  with  their  two  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  apiece,  looking  like  two 
sage  hippopotami.     Mr.  P.  is  smoking  his  morning  cigar  and  feeling 

188 


his  way  with  a  cane,  while  .Mrs.  p.  clings  with  one  arm  to  her  husband 

and  with  the  other  holds  her  skirt  in  order  that  it  may  not  sweep  the 
walk.  As  tiny  approach  the  hit  of  ice.  Mr.  1'.  prods  it  cautiously  with 
his  stick,  eyes  it  somewhat  suspiciously,  then  confidently  steps  forth, 
squeezing  the  arm  of  his  timid  spouse.  Now  the  fatal  declivity  "gets 
in  its  work."  The  old  gentleman's  heels  speed  forward  and  he  lands 
flat  on  his  hack  with  an  impact  that  strikes  every  ounce  of  breath 
from  his  body,  making  a  noise  like  the  gasp  of  an  airbrake  and  send- 
ing his  cigar  scudding  upward  thro'  a  wide  arc  like  a  rocket.  Mrs. 
P..  of  course,  follows  her  lord,  and  rolls  like  a  big  pumpkin  into  the 
snow.  The  process  of  re-establishing  the  ponderous  couple  upon  a 
solid  footing  is  necessarily  slow  and  painful.  While  for  a  moment 
Mr.  P.  lies  grunting  for  breath,  Mrs.  P.  rises  to  a  kneeling  position 
and  screams,  "Abram,  are  you  hurt?"  At  this  instant  up  comes  Mr. 
Skraggs,  a  long-legged  person  who  tends  the  furnace  next  door,  and, 
like  the  gallant  gentleman  that  he  is,  he  rushes  to  aid  the  sufferers. 
But  in  the  warmth  of  zeal  he  o'ersteps  the  bounds  of  moderation  and 
touches  the  mischief-loving  ice.  "You've  heard  of  touches  just  like 
that  before."  Mr.  Skragg's  Apollo-like  limbs  describe  parabolic  curves 
for  an  instant — then  he  falls  on  the  windless  bosom  of  Abraham! 
Pen  cannot  picture  the  ensuing  confusion.  When  at  last  Mr.  Pudg- 
worthy  is  righted,  the  frenzied  rolling  of  his  eye  bodes  no  joy  for  the 
street  cleaning  department. — A.  G.  Terry. 


MIND   AND    MATTER. 

About  one  hundred  years  ago  two  men  shook  the  world  to  its 
foundations.  The  one  was  a  Frenchman,  a  man  of  small  stature.  He 
traveled  all  over  Europe,  and  thousands  marched  in  his  train.  Prince 3 
and  kings  bowed  before  him  most  humbly,  and  he  made  himself  at 
home  in  their  capitals  without  stopping  to  ask  of  them  permission. 
He  gave  brief  commands,  and  governments  fell,  nations  were  trans- 
formed, and  states  sprang  into  being.  The  lives  of  thousands  of  men 
were  the  dice  with  which  he  played.  After  twenty  years  all  Europe 
united  to  put  him  down.  It  was  a  terrible  struggle,  but  at  last  they 
succeeded.  Howrever,  they  had  to  hold  him  down  till  he  died.  This 
man  was  known  as  Napoleon. 

The  other  man  was  a  German,  also  one  of  slight  figure  and  of 
frail  physique.  He  lived  to  be  eighty  years  old.  but  never  traveled 
more  than  forty  miles  from  the  house  in  which  he  was  born.  His 
retinue  at  the  most  consisted  of  a  few  students  in  one  of  the  smallest 
and  least-famed  universities.  He  probably  never  killed  so  much  as 
a  sparrow  in  his  lifetime.  He  was  a  simple  man,  very  precise  in  his 
habits.  It  is  said  that  the  neighbors  set  their  clocks  by  watching  him 
start  for  his  class-room.  But  this  quiet  little  person  wrote  out  some 
of  his  thoughts,  and  the  world  read  them.  The  mind  of  the  race  was 
seized  in  a  grip  from  which  it  has  never  since  extricated  itself,  nor 

18<J 


had    it   ever    before    been    so    profoundly    disturbed.      This    man    was 
Immanuel  Kant. — A.  G.   Terry. 


SUNK    IN    THE    HARBOR. 

One  evening,  at  sunset,  a  man  stood  on  a  hill  overlooking  the 
Hudson.  The  rosy  beams  slanting  across  the  placid  stream  gilded  the 
opposite  shore  with  a  tender  light,  and  revealed,  lying  there  amid 
masses  of  heavy  foliage,  a  little  village,  whose  every  feature — trim 
cottage,  shaded  garden  walk,  and  heaven-pointing  spire — suggested 
rest.  The  man  on  the  hilltop  eagerly  drank  in  the  scene,  and  tears 
moistened  his  eyes.  Every  nook  in  the  hamlet,  every  meadow  and 
pasture  on  the  hillside  beyond — nay,  every  tree  in  the  darkling  grove, 
was  associated  in  his  mind  with  some  fond  memory.  Thirty  years 
before  this  man  had  been  an  inhabitant  of  the  quiet  place  on  which 
he  was  now  gazing.  There  he  had  grown  to  young  manhood.  There 
he  had  been  tempted  and  had  yielded.  He  robbed  a  friend  and  fled 
with  the  spoil.  Fortune  had  followed  him.  In  the  new  land  far  to 
the  west  he  had  accumulated  riches.  Now,  with  yearning  heart,  he 
was  coming  back  to  find  his  old  friend,  to  throw  himself  at  his  feet, 
to  trebly  repay  him,  and  humbly  to  beg  forgiveness.  On  first  coming 
over  the  hill  and  beholding  the  familiar  scene,  his  soul  was  so  unstrung 
with  conflicting  emotions  that  he  stood  long  gazing,  even  until  the 
dark  shadows  began  to  thicken.  Finally  he  descended  to  the  edge  of 
the  stream.  He  found  two  bum-boatmen,  the  drifting  scum  of  every 
navigable  river,  and  engaged  them  to  set  him  across.  They  noticed  his 
heavy  satchel,  and  quickly  agreed.  The  little  skiff  shot  out  into  the 
glistening  tide,  impelled  by  lusty  strokes  from  two  pairs  of  oars. 
They  passed  the  rushes  on  the  flats,  they  crossed  the  broad  swirling 
channel.  It  was  dark  now  and  lights  began  to  gleam  in  the  village 
windows.  The  wanderer's  heart  fluttered  with  joy.  "Home  at  last," 
he  sighed.  The  next  instant  a  crunching  blow  fell  on  his  head,  and 
his  body  rolled  under  the  murmuring  waters.  The  skiff  put  about, 
and  faded  into  the  surrounding  gloom.  A  week  later  the  villagers 
found  a  man's  body  on  the  shore.  No  one  identified  it.  It  was  buried 
in   the   Potter's   Field. — A.   G.    Terry. 


THE   NEGRO  QUESTION. 

As  I   sat  enjoying  a  warm  breakfast  in  the  dining  room  of  the 

station  at  L ,  my  attention  was  called  to  a  gentleman  whom  the 

head  waiter  was  showing  to  a  seat  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  table. 
The  newcomer  was  a  tall,  spare  man  of  perhaps  sixty  years  of  age, 
with  a  cold  gray  eye,  a  sallow  complexion,  sunken  cheeks,  sharp  nose, 
and  a  droopfcig  mustache.  He  wore  a  broad-brimmed  black  hat,  a  very 
long  frock  coat,  buttoned  tightly  (saving  a  space  in  the  bosom  wherein 

190 


the  woarei  was  accustomed  to  thrust  his  hand  loosely  as  Into  a  pocket) 

and  a  black  string  tie.  On  the  lapel  of  his  coat  was  a  small  badge  of 
the  Confederate  Veterans'  Association.  His  hands  wore  long,  sinewy, 
and  white.  I  at  once  recognized  in  my  table  companion  a  type  of 
"good  American,"  and  I  could  not  help  eyeing  him  narrowly  through- 
out the  meal  and  wishing  that  in  some  way  conversation  might  he 
started  hetween  us.  I  knew  he  must  he  congenial  by  the  mellifluous 
"Good  mawning"  with  which  he  greeted  me  as  he  took  his  seat.  Dur- 
ing a  pause  in  the  operation  of  satisfying  appetite,  I  opened  a  news- 
paper, and.  glancing  carelessly  through  the  pages,  my  attention  fell 
upon  the  notice  of  a  lynching  in  Alahama.  Shocked  by  the  revolting 
details  of  the  incident,  I  half  unconsciously  muttered  aloud.  "Hor- 
rible, horrible!"  A  voice  from  across  the  table  queried,  "May  I  be 
puhmitted  to  inquiah  what  bad  noos  yuh  find,  suh;  no  public  calamity, 
I  trust?"  For  answer  I  read  the  more  striking  parts  of  the  article 
itself,  and  my  new  friend  gravely  listened,  at  the  same  time  balancing 
his  salt-cellar  on  the  blade  of  his  knife.  When  I  had  finished  he 
looked  at  me  quizzically,  and,  smiling,  said,  "You  ah  a  No'thenuh,  ain't 
yuh,  suh?" 

"Yes,"  said  I. 

"An'  yuh  nevah  been  in  the  South,  have  yuh?" 

"No,"  said  I. 

"Well,  do  you  believe  all  these  heah  papahs  have  tuh  tell  about 
the  South,  an'  about  Southuhnuhs,  suh?" 

I  was  somewhat  put  to  it  for  an  answer,  but  I  replied:  "That's 
about  all  I  have  to  go  by  in  such  matters." 

"Well,  now,  let  me  tell  yuh."  Here  he  shook  his  finger  at  me 
slowly,  and  his  smile  was  sultry  like  the  sun  on  a  Carolina  rice  field. 
"Don't  yuh  believe  'em,  suh.     Not  foh  a  minute,  don't  yuh  believe  'em! 

They're  d d  liahs,  suh!    (here  he  smote  the  table  till  the  glassware 

jingled).  They  ah  tryin'  tuh  slandah  Southuhnuhs,  an'  it  makes  me 
blood  bile,  suh!     O-o-h!" 

His  anger  was  splendid.  The  gray  eyes  flashed,  and  the  veins 
swelled  on  the  hand  that  had  grasped  the  sword-hilt  at  Chancellors- 
ville.  But  the  next  instant  the  storm  had  passed,  and  my  friend  was 
as  gentle  as  any  child.     He  continued,  stirring  his  coffee  meditatively: 

"It  makes  me  sad  tuh  think  how  we  Southuhnuhs  ah  misundah- 
stood.  Them  poor  cullud  people — suh,  they  ain't  no  one  loves  'em 
like  we  do.  Look  at  me.  I  had  an  ole  mammy,  suh,  I  loved  most  as 
much  as  man  own  mothah.  Suttinly  I  saw  moah  of  huh.  Why,  I 
owe  mah  life  to  that  blessed  old  cullud  woman.  She  was  all  that  a 
mothah  could  be  to  me,  suh,  an'  she  raised  me  from  the  time  I 
a  little  pink  baby  till  I  could  shift  foh  mahself.  The  happiest  memories 
of  the  mawning  of  my  existence  ah  associated  with  that  deah  ole 
mammy.  Do  yuh  think  I  could  heah  of  any  cruelty  done  to  huh  with- 
out rushing  to  shed  the  last  drop  of  my  heaht's  blood  in  huh  defense? 

Why,   sur,    I'd " 

191 


The  speaker  stopped,  and  glared  aghast  toward  the  door,  through 
which  had  just  entered  a  neatly-dressed  negro,  followed  by  his  wife 
and  three  bright-eyed,  grinning  "pickaninnies."  The  Southerner  leaped 
to  his  feet  so  suddenly  as  to  careen  the  table  dangerously  in  my  direc- 
tion. He  fairly  choked  for  utterance.  "Waitah!"  he  cried,  "what 
d'  you  mean  by  admitting  those — those  black  cattle  into  this  room? 
See  them  removed  right  smaht  quickly,  suh,  or  theah  will  be  an  awful 
row   in  this   caravansary!" 

But  the  negro  family  took  seats  unmolested,  and  my  ante-bellum 
friend  vanished  in  his  wrath. — A.  G.  Terry. 


DE  MO'NIN'  DOVE. 

When  de  sky  is  all  a-glimmah  wiv  de  dawnin', 

An'  de  mists  is  gittin'  up  above  the  crick; 
When  jruh  firs'  blinks  yo'  peepahs  en  de  mawnin,' 

An'  fin'  yo'  heaht  is  heavy  lak,  an'  sick, 
Wiv  de  cares  o'  dis  weary  life  erroun'  yuh 

S'  thick  yo'  t'ink  dey's  nuffin'  mo'  dat's  good, 
Dey's  one  kind  o'  balm  '11  sholy  cyoh  yuh — 

Hit  comes  f'om  ovah  yondeh  en  de  wood; 
"Tomorrow — coo — coo." 

Oh,  yuh  des  wantuh  lie  'n  let  huh  soak  yuh 

Twell  you's  all  kind  o'  guzzlin'  wif  de  soun', 
Yo'    soul   so   drunk   ef   someun   come   an'   poke   yuh 

Yo'd  nevah  guess  dey's  anyone  erroun'. 
Den  yuh  gits  up  an'  goes  out  en  de  sunshine, 

An'  yo'  heaht  feels  sof  an'  happy  lak  de  day; 
Ev'y  li'l  while  yuh  draps  yo'  hoe  ter  listen 

T'  dat  muhmah  en  de  timbah  far  away, 

"Tomor — row,  coo — coo." 

Dey's  some  folks  dat  says  de  soun'  am  'gub'rous, 

Dat  hit  moan  so,  an'  meks  yo'  sperrit  sad. 
Yuh  kin  'pend  upon  hit  sech  people's  dubyous, 

Dey's  sumpin'  on  dey  min'  dat  hu'ts  'em  bad: 
Kase  ter  me — why  dat  li'l  note's  ez  soothin' 

Ez  er  ole  mammy  singin'  en  de  dahk; 
Hit  alius   sayin'   wait  twell  t'morrer, 

Dey's  bettah  times  comin'   den — now  hahk! 
"Tomor — row,  coo — coo." 

But  de  days  when  I  goes  ter  see  m'  Dinah, 
An'  we  floats  wiv  de  windin'  ob  de  stream — 

Sholy  heaven  ain'  got  anything  much  finah 
'N  dem  joys,  ovah  which  I  daily  dream! 

192 


De  breeze  whispaha  lub-worda  to  de  branches, 

An'  de  grasses  bend  to  kiss  de  glassy  tide, 
'N  me — h'm — well,  I  sits  dan  wif   m"   honey, 
An    de  ole  call  er  ringin'   close   beside; 

"Tomor — row,  coo — coo." 

En  de  dahk  time  I  los'  man  po'  ole  mothah, 

An'  de  worl's  a  lonely  desert  all  erroun": 
When  hit  feel  lak  wiv  sorrow  I  would  smothah, 

When  m'  heaht's  theah  wiv  huh  below  de  groun; 
While  I  set  heah  alone  befoh  de  cabin, 

Come  er  sweet  soun'  a-floatin'  cross  de  co'n, 
Hit   seem  lak  ole  mammy's  voice  er  callin'! 

"Dar  now,  chile,  I'll  be  wif  yuh  en  de  mo'n. 
"Tomor — row,  coo — coo." 

— A.   G.   Terry. 

THE    PURITANS. 

The  wind  sweeping  clown  from  the  pine  woods  to  the  north  whines 
hungrily  about  the  corners  of  the  log  meeting-house.  There  is  no 
warmth  within.  Stolid,  like  frozen  clods,  everyone  sitting  bolt  upright 
upon  his  narrow  bench,  wrapped  in  their  dark-hued  cloaks,  and  bend- 
ing their  blue  faces  reverently  toward  the  pulpit,  the  little  congrega- 
tion hearken  to  the  exposition  of  God's  word.  Not  a  soul  in  the  fron- 
tier hamlet  is  missing,  for  to  be  so  were  a  most  heinous  offense.  All 
ages  are  represented;  stern-featured  men  with  horny  hands;  patient 
women,  cold  in  their  pious  placidness;  rigidly-schooled  children,  awed 
at  the  very  thought  of  twitching  with  pain  from  the  frosty  air  or  the 
hard  seats;  and  a  few  gray-haired  elders,  their  seamed  faces  fixed  in 
profound  solemnity.  The  minister  in  his  rude  box  has  turned  his  big 
hourglass  for  the  third  time,  and  is  entering  upon  the  discussion  of  a 
new  phase  of  the  text,  "And  Isaiah  the  prophet  cried  unto  the  Lord; 
and  he  brought  the  shadow  ten  degrees  backward,  by  which  it  had  gone 
down  in  the  dial  of  Aliaz."  His  pale,  sharp  features  seem  turned  con- 
stantly upon  each  face  in  the  audience,  and  no  one  dares,  or  even 
thinks  of  nodding  under  the  spell  of  his  low-rumbling  eloquence. 
Meanwhile  the  wind  whistles  about  the  corners  and  at  times  comes 
through  the  cracks  between  the  logs.  The  breath  of  the  people  rises 
in  faint  steam,  and  occasionally  some  sufferer  moves  a  foot  slightly  or 
draws  his  garment  closer.  Only  a  few  of  the  oldest  women  presume 
to  bring  soap-stones  to  meeting.  Thus  they  sit  in  silence  while  the 
minister  drones,  the  wind  hums,  and  at  intervals  a  swirl  of  flying 
snow  tinkles  on  the  window  pane.  Suddenly  a  new  sound  breaks  the 
stillness,  a  sound  apparently  at  a  distance  and  somewhere  outside. 
The  minister  has  not  noticed  it  in  the  warmth  of  his  discourse,  but 
several  in  the  congregation  glance  up  startled.     Who  can  be  abroad  at 

193 


this  hour?  Surely  everyone  was  in  church  when  the  preaching  began. 
Yet.  certainly,  there  was  a  noise  outside  just  now;  it  sounded  like 
some  one  hammering  up  at  the  other  end  of  the  village.  There  it 
goes  again!  The  tithing-man  slides  from  his  seat  and  tiptoes  to  the 
window.  All  eyes  follow  him  with  a  terrified  expectancy.  They  watch 
his  face  as  he  peers  out.  His  face  grows  even  a  more  ghastly  white 
than  the  cold  had  made  it  before!  At  the  same  instant  a  few  wreaths 
of  dark  smoke  are  seen  to  pass  the  window.  Then  down  on  the  cut- 
ting wind  comes  the  dreaded  sound.  A  shrill,  quavering,  yelping, 
splitting  howl;  a  shuddering,  blood-congealing  roar,  like  the  snarling 
of  a  pack  of  mad  wolves,  or  still  more  like  the  jeering  laugh  of 
demons.  With  the  wind  it  rises  and  sinks,  it  whirls,  it  wheels,  it  leaps, 
it  beats  against  the  walls,  it  falls  back  and  dies,  it  moans,  it  swells,  it 
shrieks,  it  clamors,  it  subsides,  and  again  bursts  forth  in  deafening 
chorus.  The  whole  air  throbs  with  it.  Now  the  smell  of  burning  pine 
niters  into  the  meeting  house.  The  men  are  pulling  in  the  heavy 
shutters  and  barricading  the  door.  A  few  have  seized  their  guns  and 
have  hurried  out  to  cover  the  defenders.  The  shots  begin  to  peal,  and 
they  are  driven  back,  one  of  their  number  missing.  In  through  the 
door  they  rush,  a  mad  howl  at  their  heels.  The  door  is  slammed  shut, 
and  a  dozen  heavy  forms  lurch  against  it  while  the  bar  is  dropped  into 
place,  none  too  soon,  for  a  storm  of  shots  and  axe-blows  without 
splinters  the  solid  oak.  There  in  the  darkness  stands  the  little  com- 
pany, the  men  breathing  heavily  and  fingering  their  gun-locks,  the 
women  silent,  the  children  clutching  their  mothers'  skirts  and  sob- 
bing nervously. — A.   G.   Terry. 


THE  LAST  FLY  OF  SUMMER. 

Some  peculiar  nobility  inevitably  attaches  to  the  last  individual 
of  a  vanishing  race.  In  the  leaden  chill  of  a  fall  afternoon  I  sat  at  my 
study  table,  endeavoring  by  various  contortions  to  present  as  little  of 
my  periphery  as  possible  to  the  penetrating  air.  which  crept  into  the 
room  untamed  by  artificial  heat.  The  cold  atmosphere,  added  to  the 
corpse-like  chill  of  the  dead  language  which  I  was  dissecting,  was 
turning  my  thoughts  very  naturally  into  a  lugubrious  channel,  when, 
suddenly,  there  came  a  faint  buzz,  and  a  common  housefly  dropped 
upon  the  page  of  my  book.  His  appearance  was  calculated  imme- 
diately to  arouse  compassion.  His  features  were  pinched  and  sor- 
rowful, his  costume  very  seedy,  and  he  limped  painfully  upon  his  left 
hindmost  leg,  being,  as  I  could  see,  afflicted  with  the  gout.  Tottering 
feebly  to  the  top  of  the  page,  he  turned  his  large  expressive  eyes  at 
me.  Could  this  be  the  swaggering,  reckless  young  adventurer  who 
used  to  perform  such  exasperating  gyrations  upon  my  face  as  I  lay 
comfortably  napping  in  the  warm  summer  mornings?  Yes,  it  was 
he,  for  I   recognized  on  his  cheek  a   scar  which  I   had  administered 

194 


once  by  a  deft  "uppercut."  "Yet,  prophetlike,  that  lone  one  stood," 
and  gazed  at  me  with  a  mixture  of  Badness  and  defiance.  The  Inde- 
scribable awe  and  pathos  inspired  hy  his  situation  moved  me  to  tears, 
and  I  wept  inconsiderately.  At  this  his  proud  features  curled  in  a 
smile  of  mournful  triumph,  which  proved  to  he  his  last,  for  a  cold 
gust,  sweeping  through  a  crevice  of  the  window,  smote  his  unprotected 
sides,  and  I  saw  him  shudder.  Slowly  he  sank  hack  and  closed  his 
eyes,  disposing  his  limbs  decently  for  the  calm  sleep  of  death.  The 
next  instant,  with  a  sigh,  his  spirit  departed.  A  cry  burst  from  the 
depths  of  my  soul — 

"Oh    whither,   Oh   whither,   Oh    whither   so   high?" 
and  a  voice  came  back  faintly — 

"To  spend  the  winter  up  in  the  sky; 
And,  faith.  I'll  be  back  again  by  and  by." 

—A.  G.  Terry. 


AN  EPISODE   IN   THE   SANCTUARY. 

Service  had  just  begun.  The  women  had  been  long  seated  in 
sacred  silence  on  their  side  of  the  church,  the  file  of  sun-burned  men 
had  passed  in  from  the  horse-sheds  with  a  terrible  din  of  creaking 
boots  and  had  subsided  in  the  southeast  corner;  old  Uncle  "Brom" 
Van  Stienhooven  had  marched  to  his  favorite  post,  hooked  his  cane 
over  the  back  of  a  bench,  dropped  into  his  seat,  swung  his  legs  up  to 
the  horizontal,  and,  leaning  his  head  against  the  grease-spot  on  the 
post,  had  closed  his  eyes  in  solemn  meditation.  The  organ  wheezed 
out  one  of  Charles  Wesley's  hymns,  which  the  choir  and- the  women 
joined  in  singing;  the  ''dominie"  offered  a  prayer  accompanied  by 
fervent  moans  from  Uncle  Brom,  and  then  the  organ  was  seized  once 
more  with  colic.  The  sermon  now  began.  For  thirty  minutes  I 
followed  its  windings  through  a  dim,  doctrinal  labyrinth,  scurried 
with  it  down  the  historical  perspective,  and  leaped  with  it  over  the 
bounds  of  space  and  time;  but  at  last  I  fell  back  exhausted,  unable 
to  keep  the  pace.  The  windows  were  open.  Outside  could  be  heard 
the  drone  of  summer  insects,  the  twitter  of  birds,  the  drowsy  rustling 
of  maple  leaves,  and  the  splash  of  a  waterfall  in  the  "kill"  hard  by. 
My  eyelids  were  slowly  closing,  and  the  outer  world  had  nearly  faded 
from  my  sight,  when  a  vision  of  the  benign  face  of  Sol  Schoonmacher 
recalled  me  to  consciousness.  Sol  sat  wedged  in  the  bone-breaking 
embrace  of  the  back  and  arm  of  his  wooden  pew,  his  interminable 
nether  limbs  stowed  away  in  uncouth  angles  before  him,  and  his 
arms  folded  tightly  across  his  breast.  Sol  was  evidently  "drinking 
in"  the  impassioned  discourse  of  the  pastor,  for  his  head  had  tilted 
back  until  his  face  was  directed  toward  the  ceiling,  and  his  mouth — 
of  no  mean  dimensions — was  gaping  widely  to  receive  the  word,  his 
eyes   (at  the  same  time)   being  closed  in  blissful  expectancy.     From 

1!T; 


time  to  time  a  faint  snarl,  like  the  purring  of  a  cat,  issued  from  the 
cavity.  Directly  above  Sol's  uplifted  countenance  was  the  edge  of  the 
gallery,  and  over  the  rail  leaned  a  youth  of  some  twelve  summers,  for 
the  lambs  of  the  flock  were  sometimes  allowed  to  occupy  the  gallery. 
Now  as  the  mind  of  Solomon  was  intent  upon  things  above,  even  so 
was  the  lamb's  thought  diverted  to  the  things  of  earth,  for  he  was 
engaged  in  rolling  a  small  strip  of  tinfoil  into  globular  form.  The 
task  finished,  I  saw  him  lean  forward  and  deliberately  poise  the 
missile.  It  fell — and  ne\er  did  material  body  more  faithfully  obey 
the  Newtonian  law,  for  the  vile  sphere  unerringly  entered  the  wide 
orifice  in  honest  Schoonmacher's  face.  There  was  a  hollow  impact, 
Sol's  head  came  up  with  a  jerk,  his  teeth  snapped  together  wildly, 
and  his  hands  clutched  at  the  back  of  the  seat  in  front,  while  his  two 
enormous  cowhide  boots  smote  the  floor  with  a  crash  that  made  the 
boards  ring.  A  sputtering  cough,  a  muffled  "gol  durn,"  the  startled 
screPims  of  a  few  women,  and  I  saw  the  lamb  disappear,  while  Uncle 
Brom,  thinking  by  the  noise  that  the  parson  must  have  closed  some 
tremendous  climax,  groaned  out  "Amen!" — A.  G.  Terry. 


MOONLIGHT  ON  THE  WATER. 

It  is  well  known  that  the  chief  element  of  beauty  is  harmony. 
What  is  a  beautiful  face?  One  which  shows  the  greatest  harmony 
between  its  separate  constituents — mould  of  feature  and  purity  of 
complexion,  for  instance;  or.  still  more,  one  showing  harmony  between 
the  features  and  those  stronger  yet  more  elusive  marks  of  beauty 
found  in  the  facial  expression.  Harmony  is,  of  course,  the  essential 
element  of  beauty  in  music.  Likewise,  the  indefinable  charm  of  moon- 
light falling  upon  water  is  the  result  of  harmony.  Water  is  attractive 
because  it  is  liquid,  and  hence  through  its  great  susceptibility  to  out- 
ward influences.  Of  course,  it  is  also  attractive  by  means  of  its 
pellucidness,  as,  where  it  is  motionless,  the  beauty  rests  in  its  soft- 
ness and  clarity.  But  the  finest  effects  of  water  appear  when  it  is 
disturbed — the  sparkling  ripples,  the  rolling  billows,  the  sheeted  cas- 
cade, the  tortuous  rapid,  the  smooth-gliding  river.  Moonlight  is  less 
easily  analyzed.  It  is  pleasing  to  the  visual  sense,  but  in  what  way 
is  difficult  to  tell.  We  usually  conceive  it  as  something  soft  and 
mellow,  but  on  winter  nights  it  seems  hard,  cold,  and  keen.  This 
appearance  is  probably  the  result  of  association  with  the  atmospheric 
condition.  But,  in  general,  Luna's  ray  is  beautiful  in  being  a  delicate, 
somewhat  weird,  and  very  ideal  form  of  light.  Now  it  would  be 
absurd  to  think  of  anything  as  beautiful,  to  the  visual  sense  at  least, 
without  some  light.  Blackness  is  horror.  Utter  darkness  is  the 
antithesis  of  beauty.  Water  has  no  beauty  save  when  light  falls 
upon  it,  and  the  degree  of  beauty  depends  upon  the  degree  of  light. 
This   latter   statement   holds   true    universally.      Why   does   the   stage 

1% 


manager  throw  shifting  lights  upon  t he  scenes?  Why  is  sunset,  the 
most  beautiful  time  of  day?  In  both  cases  a  certain  degree  or  quality 
of  light  harmonizes  most  effectively  with  certain  present  conditions. 
Here,  thru,  seems  to  be  the  secret  of  the  charm  of  moonlight  on  the 
water.  The  moon's  radiance,  with  its  weird  delicacy  and  silver  tone, 
is  tli*  form  of  light  most  in  harmony  with  the  sensibility  and  mya 
terious  limpidity  of  water.  The  effect  is  to  awaken  the  emotions 
and  the  imaginative  powers  to  their  greatest  activity.  Music,  as  Poe 
says,  is  more  effective,  perhaps,  than  any  other  form  of  art  in  produc- 
ing that  "exaltation  of  the  soul"  which  is  its  nearest  approach  to 
Divine  Truth.  Let  the  imagination  be  aroused  by  the  sight  of  moon- 
light falling  over  a  beautiful  expanse  of  water;  then  let  exquisite 
music  be  added,  and  it  is  an  abnormally  dull  nature  which  is  not 
profoundly  affected.  If  you  would  see  strange  and  fantastic  images, 
go  down  to  the  lake  shore  on  a  cold,  moonlight  night  and  watch  the 
leaden  surges  come  growling  in  through  the  broken  ice.  Directly 
beneath  the  moon  stretches  a  long  path  of  light  scattered  into  a 
million  fragments  as  by  some  mighty  upheaval.  Amid  the  ruins  you 
see  wild  forms  writhing  and  twisting,  horrible  brazen  scales  glancing 
back  the  pale  beams,  broad,  sinewy,  shiny  backs  of  Titans,  their  mus- 
cles all  a-quiver,  rolling  and  heaving  in  anguish.  Where  the  broken 
billows  swash  through  the  slush  you  see  a  vast  caldron  of  molten 
silver,  and  in  it  awful  things  squirming  and  hissing.  Then  a  great 
wave  comes  sweeping  in,  lifts  its  somber  head,  bends  forward,  and 
for  an  instant  its  long  crest  flashes  like  the  sword  of  St.  Michael. 
It  crashes  into  ruin,  and  again  the  monsters  writhe,  the  Titans  heave, 
and  the  serpents  squirm  amid  a  perfect  Babel  of  sighs  and  moans  and 
hisses. — A.   G.    Terry. 

THE  WORLD'S  TALENTED. 

A  mighty  hand,  from  an  exhaustless  urn,  pours  forth  the  never- 
ending  flood  of  talent.  Mrs.  Algernon  Fitz-Gedney  informed  us 
recently  that  her  daughter  Jane,  after  a  fourteen-year  course  at  Pro- 
fessor Crispelli's  conservatory,  would  shortly  make  her  debut  in  the 
musical  world.  At  the  age  of  five,  Jane  once  startled  her  fond  mamma 
by  picking  on  the  keyboard  the  strains  of  "Peter,  Peter,"  whereupon 
the  worthy  dame,  clutching  her  husband's  arm,  screamed,  "Thomas, 
do  you  hear  that?  That  child  has  remarkable  talent!  It  must  be 
brought  out!"  Thomas  agreed,  and  the  talent  has  been  brought  out. 
Some  wretch  has  suggested  that  Thomas's  pocketbook  was  brought  out 
somewhat  more  than  Jane's  talent,  but  of  course  we  ignore  the  slander. 

Away  clown  in  "Egypt"  James  Skroggles,  a  youth  of  thirty-two 
years,  was  following  the  plow  one  day,  when  lo!  a  light  blazed  before 
him,  just  over  the  off-mule's  back,  and  amid  the  light  was  written 
a  great  letter  P.  The  trembling  James  rushed  home,  pulled  off  his 
overalls,  packed  his  alternate  shirt  and  two  collars  into  a  valise,  and 

197 


started  for  Evanston.  Arrived  there,  he  strode  up  to  the  registrar  at 
G.  B.  I.  and  said:  "Brother,  I've  been  called  o'  the  Lord  to  preach! 
Put  my  name  on  yer  book,  and  gimme  some  larnin'  quick,  kaze  the 
fields  air  ripenin'  to  the  harvest  and  the  Lord  hez  chose  me  fer  his 
instrooment."  Alas,  that  such  an  instrument  should  need  repairs! 
Two  days  later  Brother  S.  was  assigned  to  the  sixth  grade  of  a  public 
school.  But  he  has  nobly  won  his  way,  and  now,  at  the  age  of  forty- 
five,  finding  himself  a  fourth-year  "prep,"  he  has  concluded — disre- 
garding the  advice  of  a  teacher  who  has  suggested  that  the  flaming 
P  possibly  meant  "plow"  instead  of  "preach" — to  omit  the  theological 
course  and  at  once  enter  the  field  which  is  crying  for  him.  Talent 
cannot  be  repressed.  My  friend  Taylor  Slappington  recently  handed 
in  the  prize  essay  in  a  baking  powder  contest,  and  now,  to  be  sure, 
the  great,  hungering  heart  of  humanity  is  faint  for  refreshment  from 
his  pen.  His  numerous  friends  know  it,  and  they  slap  him  on  the 
back.  "You're  a  genius,  my  deah  fellah,  you're  a  genius,"  they  say, 
and  Taylor's  poems  and  sketches  are  pounding  the  doors  of  a  dozen 
editorial  sanctums  at  this  hour.  Likewise  young  Raphael  De  Bray 
has  a  wonderful  gift  as  an  artist.  At  present  he  is  making  cuts  for 
the  Dodd-Oppenheim  Company's  Patent  Suspender  advertisement,  but 
undoubtedly  he  will  have  a  canvas  in  the  Louvre  very  soon.  These 
are  a  few  of  my  talented  acquaintances.  They  are  samples  of  what 
the  world  is  giving  us  every  day  by  thousands. — A.  G.  Terry. 


DINNER   ON    THE    FARM. 

Sairy  Ann,  gingham-clad  and  bare-armed,  steps  to  the  door  and 
winds  a  long,  hollow  blast  on  the  old  conch  shell.  Following  her  sum- 
mons she  hears  a  faint  yell  away  down  the  narrow  valley.  A  few 
moments  later  a  load  of  hay  comes  rattling  down  the  hillside  lane, 
and  passes  with  a  swish  and  thunder  of  hoofs  through  the  yawning 
barn  door.  Soon  the  sunburned  workers  are  splattering  about  the 
hogshead  and  washpan  out  under  the  maple  by  the  woodshed,  and 
there  is  much  use  of  soft  soap  and  of  a  single  crash  towel  that  hangs 
on  a  sliver  of  bark.  Then,  one  by  one,  with  heavy-booted  awkward- 
ness they  pass  into  the  rag-carpeted  living  room,  and  sit  down  at  the 
table.  When  a  farm  hand  sits  down  he  merely  spreads  his  legs  apart, 
tosses  a  chair  between  them,  and  drops  on  it,  immediately  tilting  back 
to  the  comfortable  angle.  The  table,  with  its  pink  cloth,  is  nearly 
smothered  under  columns  of  piled-up  plates,  stacks  of  wooden-handled 
knives  and  forks,  broad  platters,  innumerable  mysterious  dishes 
shrouded  beneath  napkins  to  keep  off  flies,  and  tiers  of  cups  and 
saucers.  All  heads  are  bowed  for  an  instant  while  "Paw"  mumbles 
a  short  grace.  Then  everybody  passes  down  his  plate  and  Paw,  with 
his  sharp  fork,  spears  and  drops  upon  each  a  slice  of  salt  pork  and  a 
huge,   steaming   potato.     This   done,   somebody   starts   the  bread-plate 

198 


and   each   person   pulls  therefrom   a   great,   flaky,  seven-by-nine 

and  deposits  it  beside  his  pork  and  potato.  Next  the  butter — rich 
yellow  butter  in  a  neat  pad  with  three  grooves  across  the  top  and 
beads  of  water  exuding  from  its  sides — passes  around  and  vanishes 
under  the  knives  of  the  assaulting  party.  After  that  the  gravy  runs 
its  lap  about  the  oval,  and  the  hired  men.  who  usually  prefer  gravy 
to  butter,  swamp  their  pork,  potatoes,  bread  and  all  under  its  liquid 
folds.  Meanwhile  the  girls  have  been  dishing  the  side  relishes,  or 
re  collectively  termed,  and  every  one  finds  clustered 
about  his  main  plate  a  group  of  satellite  dishes  .containing  peas  or 
beans,  canned  pears,  sliced  cabbage,  cucumbers,  apple-sauce,  rhubarb, 
and  the  like.  Lastly,  the  pickles  make  the  circuit,  and  "Maw"  dis- 
tributes the  cups  of  tea  or  coffee.  Simultaneously  the  assault  begins 
and  conversation  ceases.  Individual  or  local  peculiarities  of  the  eaters 
are  apparent.  The  men  always  hold  their  forks  as  they  would  a 
dagger.  The  fork  is  jabbed  into  the  meat,  the  knife  severs  a  slice, 
is  inserted  beneath  it,  and  conveys  it  deftly  to  the  mouth.  About 
four  repetitions  of  this  process  serve  to  clean  the  plate,  and  it  is  sent 
back  to  headquarters  for  replenishment.  Only  the  women  hold  their 
cups  by  the  handles.  The  men  invariably  tilt  the  cup,  allowing  the 
golden  beverage  to  spill  into  the  saucer;  then  they  raise  the  latter 
to  their  lips  and  "dreen"  it  in  two  or  three  gulps.  The  huge  slices 
of  bread,  one  of  which  alone  would  make  a  meal  for  a  city  man,  are 
"sopped"  in  gravy  and  pushed  down  in  a  twinkling.  Time  after  time 
one  of  the  girls  rushes  to  the  kitchen  for  additional  supplies. 

When  the  fury  of  the  first  onslaught  is  somewhat  abated,  con- 
versation is  resumed  in  brief  snatches  between  bites.  It  goes  some- 
thing like  this: 

"Wa't  the'  a  team  went  up  the  road  'bout  an  hour  ago?"  asks  Paw. 

"Yes,"  says  Sairy  Ann,  "I  was  out  to  the  hen-house  then,  an' 
couldn't  see  who  't  was.     Maw  was  here,  though." 

"Why  it  looked  to  me  like  Abe  Shultz,"  says  Maw;  "he  had  a  sor'l 
hoss  an'  a  one-seated  market  wagon,  an'  looked  like  he  was  carryin' 
a  couple  o'  calves." 

"Well  then,"  Paw  says,  "it  couldn't  a  been  Abe,  'cause  he  sold 
his  sor'l  last  month,  an'  the  last  time  I  's  over  he  tole  me  he  didn't  have 
no  calves." 

Then  Jake,  a  hired  hand,  speaks  over  a  mouthful  of  bread  and 
pickles.  "I'll  bet  it  was  Si  Ames.  He  tole  me  Sat'day  that  he's  goin' 
to  take  some  calves  over  to  Hi  Runnolds  this  week,  an'  he's  got  a 
sor'l  mare,  ye  know?    Did  it  limp  in  its  front  foot  'd  ye  notice?" 

"Yes,"  answers  Maw,  "I   recollect  now,  it  did." 

"Aha,"  says  Paw,   "then   that's  ben  who   it  is." 

A  pause  follows  this  momentous  settlement. 

"How  many  more  loads  ye  got  to  fetch  in  yet,  Paw?"  asks  Sairy 
Ann. 

"  'Bout  three,  countin'  the  rakin's  an'  the  piece  Levi's  ben  'mowin' 

I.e.) 


with  the  scythe  down  by  the  Toon  Swamp.     Think  the's  more'n  half 

a  load  in  the  swamp  piece,  Levi?" 

The  question  is  addressed  in  loud  tones  to  a  bent,  weazen,  deaf 

old  man,  who,  with  his  few  remaining  incisors,  is  nibbling  a  potato. 

The  old  fellow  rolls  up  his  dim  eye  and  waits  till  his  feeble  wits  fully 

grasp  the  purport  of  the  question.     Then  he  drawls,  "On'y  'bout  half 

a   load,   I  calklate." 

Soon  the  pie  is  passed,  and  each  one  takes  a  slice  upon  his  plate. 

The  man  who  receives  the  last  slice  eats  it  out  of  the  tin. 

Then  the  facetious  Jake  tries   a   side-shot  at   pretty   Sairy   Ann. 

"Sairy,"  he  says,  "them  two  blacks  an'  the  new  buggy  't  he  tuck  ye 

to  the  picnic  with  ain't  his'n.     He  borrered  'em  of  a  man  to  Janes's 

Corners." 

The  answer  comes  quick.     "Borrered   rig  is  better  'n  a  borrered 

gal.     You  had  to  take  yer  cousin  Bess,  'cause  Steenie  Voorst  went  off 

'ith  Jed  Shear  'fore  your  lazy  old  plug  fetched  ye  'round  t'  ask  fer 
her!" 

The  loud  laugh  at  his  expense  makes  Jake  choke  on  a  piece  of  pie, 

and  he  turns  scarlet  and  sulky.  "Shucks,"  he  grunts,  as  he  picks  up 
his  hat,  wipes  his  mouth  on  his  sleeve,  and  stamps  out,  slamming  the 
screen   door  behind  him. 

One  by  one  the  men  follow  him,  wending  their  way  toward  barn  or 
stable.  When  Paw  goes  out  he  carries  two  pails,  and  he  may  be  seen 
entering  the  hog-pen,  whence  issues  an  agonized  squealing.  We  hear 
the  milk  swash  into  the  trough,  then  a  rush  of  feet;  then  we  see  Paw 
come  out  and  close  the  door,  leaving  a  suggestive  silence  behind  him. 
Last  of  all,  old  Levi  lights  his  pipe,  shoulders  his  scythe,  and  hobbles 
off  up  the  lane  like  Father  Time.  But  the  women  sigh  and  look 
wearily  at  the  table,  now  covered  with  naught  but  empty  dishes. — A.  G. 
Terry. 

A  MASTERPIECE. 

A  masterpiece  is  a  flaming  torch  which  a  man  of  genius  sets  in 
the  high  road  that  he  walks  alone.  It  illumines  all  the  way  behind 
and  all  before  him.  By  its  light  he  is  seen,  he  is  judged;  and  what  he 
would  keep  hidden  is  evermore  revealed. 

The  flickering  tapers  of  his  past  ever  brighter  shine  in  its  splen- 
did fire;  but  if  he  has  burned  his  soul  out  in  that  pure  flame  he  goes 
sadly  down  the  unknown  vista  setting  dwindling  tapers  to  the  end. 
— Helen  Clark  Balmer. 

PIERROT. 

My  little  friend  meets  me  at  the  front  door  whenever  I  go  out 
or  come  in.  I  suppose  it  is  the  possession  of  liberty  that  he  vaguely 
recognizes  in  my  goings  and  comings,  and  the  wish  to  share  my  free- 
dom is  always  with  him;  although,  at  a  discouraging  word,  he  docilely 

200 


goes  back  to  his  particular  window-scat  to  watch  me  out  of  sight. 
Then  I  feel,  somewhat  contritely,  that  he  will  heave  a  lone-doggie 
sigh  and  put  his  dear  head  on  his  curly  paws  to  await  my  return.  As 
I  ring  the  bell  he  leaps  to  the  doorknob,  on  the  inner  side,  testifying 
by  much  barking  and  vigorous  working  of  his  short  tail  how  gladly 
he  would  open  the  heavy  door.  But  six  pounds  of  Yorkshire  terrier, 
plus  all  this  fervid  enthusiasm,  equals  one  hundred  pounds  of  solid 
oak  panelling;  or,  in  other  words,  noise  versus  weight  brings  a  new 
factor  (the  maid),  who  eliminates  the  obdurate  term  and  solves  the 
problem.  One  hundred  minutes  of  absence  warrant  a  score  or  so  of 
rapturous  touches  of  his  warm  tongue  on  my  hands  and  face,  before 
he  quiets  down  utterly  exhausted  with  emotion.  Short  tremors  of 
contentment  prove  that  he  is  not  asleep,  and  the  glint  of  a  bright  eye, 
through  his  soft  thatch  of  hair,  warns  me  of  his  watchfulness.  For 
a  while  I  dare  not  move  beyond  his  jealous  care;  and  so,  to  rid  myself 
of  an  almost  burdensome  attention,  I  gently  roll  his  ball  across  the 
floor.  R-r-r-ruff!  The  scamp  is  off,  tumbling  over  the  rugs,  under  the 
-ables  and  chairs,  resembling  a  badly  shaken  rug  himself  or  an 
nimated  moth-eaten  muff  in  a  series  of  kinemetographic  pictures. 

My  small  friend  has  a  long  English  pedigree,  and  bears  the  French 
Lame  for  a  clown.  But  he  is  equally  as  indifferent  to  ancestry  as  to  a 
libellous  appellation,  obviously  preferring  chicken-bones  or  after- 
dinner  coffee  to  either.  Moreover,  like  the  rose,  there  are  reasons  why 
one  name  will  do  as  well  as  another,  so  he  appropriates  all  terms  of 
endearment  to  himself.  Although  soft-hearted,  Pierrot  is  not  suscepti- 
ble to  all  advances,  and  his  genuine  attachments  are  fewr.  However, 
he  is  partial  to  lady  callers,  a  slight  sneeze  being  tantamount  to  affable 
interest  in  one's  personality.  If  teased,  his  growling  is  really  artistic, 
for  it  is  the  very  perfection  of  make-believe. 

Next  to  his  human  friends  he  adores  the  family  cat;  but  he  has 
two  terrors — a  thunder-storm  *and  our  parrot,  the  latter  having  one 
day  ill-treated  his  shoe-button  nose  on  one  of  its  tours  of  investiga- 
tion. Since  then  his  point-of-view  has  been  socially  more  elevated  and 
less  inquisitive. 

But  to  appreciate  Pierrot  thoroughly  you  should  see  those  gentle 
brown  eyes,  that  might  illumine  the  face  of  a  child,  looking  wistfully 
into  yours.  Then,  indeed,  you  would  be  quite  ready  to  believe  in  the 
transmigration  of  souls. — Helen  Clark  Balmer. 


THE  CASE  OF  JANE  EMMA. 

Jane  Emma  was  washing  dishes.  This  was  merely  a  pastime  with 
her  between  the  preparation  and  the'  serving  of  the  three  daily  meals 
for  a  family  of  seven  younger  brothers  and  sisters.  Her  memory  could 
not  go  back  to  the  time  when  she  was  a  petted  baby,  for  her  earliest 
confused    recollections   were   of  others   scarcely  smaller   than   herself 

201 


contending  with  her  for  the  scant  notice  which  a  busy,  fretted  mother 
could  give  to  three  or  four  "troublesome  comforts,"  who  were  always 
rolling  about  under  foot. 

It  was  therefore  a  proud  but  fateful  moment  for  poor  Jane  Emma 
when  someone  unwittingly  hoisted  her  plump  little  person  to  the  top 
of  a  starch-box  and,  tucking  a  towel  under  her  double-chin,  intimated 
that  she  might  dabble  in  the  rainbow-hued  suds  and  souse  the  cups  and 
plates  up  and  down  in  the  foamy  water  as  long  as  she  liked.  The 
other  children  had  not  this  privilege;  and,  although  they  crawled  to 
the  base  of  her  humble  pedestal  and  lifted  up  beseeching  hands  and 
voices,  something  gave  Jane  Emma  the  spirit  to  withstand  their  plead- 
ing. From  that  moment  her  destiny  was  fixed;  and  metaphorically 
she  never  descended  from  her  enviable  position. 

Later  on  the  dear,  familiar  advice  of  relatives  and  bosom-friends 
persuaded  the  tired,  weak  mother  to  depend  more  and  more  upon  her 
little  daughter;  and  often  Jane  Emma  would  overhear  the  pleased 
comment  to  visitors  that  "her  eldest  child  was  decidedly  domestic  in 
her  tastes."  Then  poor  Jane  Emma  would  bravely  gulp  down  a  big 
lump  in  her  throat  and  plunge  her  little  rough  red  hands  deeper  into 
the  dish-pan.  Attending  school  regularly  began  to  interfere  with  her 
accumulating  duties  and  household  cares,  and  as  work  developed  the 
child  into  an  awkward  girl,  large  for  her  age,  and  with  that  rawness 
of  manner  which  seems  engendered  of  kitchen  service,  it  was  not 
surprising  that  Jane  Emma  gradually  withdrew  from  her  quondam 
schoolmates,  and  that  books  became  less  and  less  seen  in  her  hands. 
Environment  was  moulding  the  character  of  the  young  woman,  and 
all  her  physical  and  mental  endowments  seemed  to  be  expressed  in 
domestic  activities. 

In  the  course  of  nature,  Jane  Emma  became  the  head  of  the 
family;  for  when  she  was  five-and-twenty  years  of  age,  her  parents 
died,  leaving  to  her  the  responsibility  of  keeping  her  five  brothers  in 
school  or  college.  It  was  one  of  her  unselfish  compensations  that 
"the  boys"  were  students  of  promise,  as  with  frugality  and  rare  com- 
monsense  she  managed  the  meagre  finances  and  the  affairs  of  the  home 
so  that  no  one  clearly  divined  the  priceless  gift  of  her  personality 
offered  for  her  family.  She  saw  her  sisters  about  to  be  married  with- 
out seriously  thinking  of  their  obligations  to  her  or  of  waiting  to 
lighten  her  burdens. 

These  thoughts  were  passing  in  the  mind  of  Mrs.  Powell,  the  new 
minister's  wife,  as  she  sat  in  Jane  Emma's  neat  kitchen  watching  the 
patient  girl  at  her  "eternal  dish-washing."  Jane  Emma  had  uncon- 
sciously given  that  lady  a  glimpse  of  her  thwarted  ambitions,  and  the 
visitor  was  silently  praying  for  wisdom  to  speak  words  of  comfort 
and  hope. 

A  window,  by  the  sink,  opened  upon  a  view  of  rich  fields  and 
farmlands,  checkered  green  and  yellow,  that  stretched  far  and  wide, 
sloping  to  unseen  valleys  or  to  a  broad,  beautiful,  sunny  plain  walled 

202 


by  azure  mists,  folded  on  each  other  like  dissolving  clouds  grow- 
ing ever   fainter  against  a  golden  sky. 

Jane  Emma  smiled  and  pointed  southward  with  a  soapy  fore- 
finger at   Lhe  wonderful  vision  of  the  distant  "Blue  Ridge." 

"After  all,  ma'am.  I  have  my  duty,  that,  and  God!" — Helen  Clark 
Balmer. 


"BESSERHEART." 

This  is  not  the  title  of  a  recently-exhumed  Egyptian  mummy    but 
the  pet  name  of  a  dear  little  four-year-old's  favorite  doll. 

How  well  I  recall  the  distinct  visual  shock  when  my  eyes  first 
encountered  the  battered  features  of  this  modern  idol!  For,  indeed, 
Besserheart  closely  resembled  a  heathen  war-god  or  a  miniature  totem- 
pole.  I  made  her  acquaintance  on  the  occasion  of  a  "Doll  Show," 
which  was  given  for  charity,  where  her  small  mistress  had  innocently 
and  confidently  presented  her  for  honors;  and  certainly  Besserheart, 
as  I  remember  her,  was  an  object  for  charitable  consideration.  But 
the  unimaginative  manager  of  that  unique  exhibition  hesitated  about 
accepting  so  dubious  a  being  among  the  becurled  and,  beribboned 
beauties  that  were  rapidly  accumulating  on  her  hands.  However,  a 
quick-witted  assistant  with  an  eye  to  increasing  the  funds,  solved  the 
difficulty  by  making  a  new  class  where  competitors  for  ugliness  might 
be  entered.  Thus  Besserheart  had  the  distinction  of  creating  a  de- 
mand for  dilapidated  and  passe  specimens  of  dollkind.  Apparently 
every  nursery  was  ransacked  for  these  queer  "skeletons  in  closets," 
and  the  result  was  a  brave  collection  of  "freaks"  in  every  stage  of 
dolorous  decline,  their  very  unloveliness  giving  one  that  sensation  of 
cumulative  surprise  which  makes  an  inward  agony  of  laughter.  But 
none  outdid  Besserheart,  who  was,  in  herself,  a  complete  crescendo  of 
hideousness.  It  required  some  moments  before  I  could  calmly  study 
her:  and  what  I  then  saw  was  a  dirty  waxen  face  tattooed  in  an  im- 
pressionistic manner  suggestive  of  small  finger-nails,  while  a  wisp 
of  hair  stood  upright  in  a  style  to  delight  a  Comanche  scalp-hunter; 
the  snubbed  nose  was  clumsily  pieced  out  with  chewing-gum;  and,  in 
lieu  of  an  accommodating  mouth,  an  empty  eye-socket  seemed  to  be 
the  opening  through  which  such  dainties  as  pins  and  buttons  were 
thrust  for  slow  digestion.  No  wonder  that  her  solitary  eye  had  a 
hard  glint  and,  like  Jack  Bunsby's,  saw  something  this  side  of  Green- 
land! 

With  shorter  arms  than  the  Venus  de  Milo;   one  leg  gone  at  the 
and  the  other  hanging  by  a  few  threads  to  a  body,  limp  from 
loss  of  sawdust  and  airily  attired  in  a  single  garment,  whose  condi- 
tion was  of  "the  earth,  earthy" — Besserheart  was  photographed  upon 
my  memory. 

If   she  could   be   said   to   have  expression,   it  ought  to   have  been 
called  "tired,"  for  the  utter  lack  of  atmosphere  caused  the  outlines  to 

203 


be  deepened  into  a  blase  homeliness.  I  began  to  pity  her;  and  glanc- 
ing across  the  room  at  a  rainbow-tinted  group  of  new  dollies  blandly- 
smiling  into  an  unknown  future,  other  changes,  not  so  obviously- 
wrought  by  certain  small  fingers,  came  to  mind;  and  Besserheart 
assumed  a  softer  aspect  while  a  mist  of  happy  yesterdays  wrapped 
her  in  friendly  cloudiness.  And  then  a  tiny  warm  hand  slipped  into 
mine,  even  as  a  contented  little  voice  chattered  about  the  many  hand- 
some dolls  with  their  wonderful  clothes!  There  was  never  a  hint  of 
jealousy  nor  consciousness  that  her  own  darling  was  not  so  attractive 
or  desirable;  because,  no  doubt,  the  spotlessly  clean  creatures  were 
objects  not  to  be  handled  with  all  the  loving  familiarity  of  her  old, 
long-suffering  favorite. 

How  glad  I  was  when  the  awarding  of  prizes  gave  a  medal  to 
Besserheart!  although  I  almost  resented  the  fact  that  she  won  it  by 
reason  of  being,  in  the  minds  of  the  astute  judges,  "positively  the 
ugliest  doll  they  ever  saw!" — Helen  Clark  Balmer. 


A  SAGE  OF  THE  CAMPUS. 

With  a  loud,  splintering  crash  the  old  oak  fell  headlong  to  the 
campus,  where  slow,  shuddering  motions,  ever  growing  fainter, 
thrilled  through  all  its  length  of  gaunt  arms  stretched  out  in  impotent 
pain;  and  the  bare  twigs,  like  fleshless  fingers,  could  not  so  much  as 
clutch  at  or  tear  the  cold,  unfeeling  earth,  but  continued  to  quiver 
hideously  long  after  the  trunk  was  quite  still.  A  spatter  of  yellowish 
chips  -strewed  the  wet  mould ;  and  from  the  hacked  and  hollow  stump 
an  odor  of  woody  mustiness  polluted  the  spring  air;  for  the  tree  was 
the  victim  of  a  hidden  disease,  and  death  had  begun  to  creep  upward 
within  the  fine,  stalwart  body.  And  now  the  poor  oak  lay  just 
a  measure  of  the  conscious  years  since  it  first  pushed  up  into  the  light 
and  felt  the  tender  touch  of  sun  and  breeze.  How  eager  it  had  been 
to  stretch  up  and  grow  tall  enough  to  put  out  welcoming  arms  towards 
the  birds  and  the  squirrels,  that  could  not  refuse  the  friendly  shelter 
of  the  thick  glossy  foliage!  And  as  the  seasons  ever  circled  from  green 
to  brown,  what  pride  the  oak  took  in  its  spreading  verdure  and  in  its 
ability,  each  spring,  to  lift  nearer  to  the  soft,  rainless  blue  its  top- 
most tuft  of  pale  leaves! 

As  time  passed,  others  of  his  family  clustered  around  him,  and 
close  arid  loving  was  their  companionship,  with  the  same  sun  to  warm 
them  and  the  wind  to  play  wonderful  fantasia  in  their  branches.  When 
storms  beat  upon  them,  sometimes  their  bared  arms  would  intertwine, 
and  whispers  would  pass  from  twig  to  twig,  as  if  some  sly  jest 
animated  the  grave  trees  with  sudden  laughter  and  suggested  shak- 
ing down  a  rattling  shower  of  browned  acorns  upon  the  heads  of  two 
students  who  had  sought  shelter  beneath.  How  the  old  gossips 
leaned  and  listened — hearing,  in  the  course  of  years,  such  queer  things 

204 


about  the  endless  throng  that  went  about  with  hooks!  and  having 
treasured  the  hits  of  wisdom  thus  wafted  to  them,  on  winter  nights 
they  were  apt  to  wail  out  a  mysfc  rioufl  adagio  to  the  solemn  accom- 
paniment of  the  lake.  But  now  it  was  all  over  —the  sage  of  the  campus 
had  fallen!  Let  his  grieving  companions  of  the  grove  toss  their  naked 
arms  in  wild,  unutterable  agony  and  the  waves  heat  a  funeral  dirge 
upon  the  shore! 

The  wood-chopper  picked  up  his  axe  and,  carelessly  whistling, 
counted  the  distinct  rings  in  the  fallen  trunk.  "Whew,  two  hundred 
and  ten!     An  auld  feller  he  was." — Helen  Clark  Balmer. 


A  HUMBLE  SANTA  CLAUS. 

It  was  only  a  stubby  branch  from  one  of  a  group  of  Christmas 
trees,  which  stood  outside  a  butcher's  shop,  but  to  little  Jim  it  might 
have  been  as  stately  a  pine  as  any  of  them  that  wrere  destined  to  bear 
such  wonderful  fruit!  It  rather  added  to  the  charm  of  possession  that 
he  had  secretly  torn  it  from  the  parent-bough,  for  Jim  was  a  gamin, 
who  habitually  broke  the  tenth  and  the  eight  commandments  together. 
But  this  time  there  was  an  unselfish  reason  for  risking  detection  and 
probable  punishment,  because  his  baby  sister  would  have  no  Christ- 
mas-tree unless  he  provided  one.  Their  mother  could  barely  give 
them  bread  and  potatoes. 

Jim's  resources  for  making  money  were  limited,  but  he  always 
had  his  wits  and  his  hands.  Besides,  when  he  did  earn  a  few  cents 
he  was  sure  to  lose  them,  for  pockets  full  of  holes  are  not  safe  depos- 
itories, and  a  cap-lining  is  equally  uncertain,  since  a  cap  can  be  easily 
jerked  into  the  mud,  and  have  all  its  wealth  of  pennies  pass  into 
other  hands.  Therefore  Jim's  way  was  to  spend  quickly  all  that  he 
earned;  and  on  this  late  December  afternoon  he  had  not  an  available 
copper. 

At  the  Mission  Sunday-school,  on  last  Christmas,  he  had  seen  a 
great  tree  trimmed  with  strings  of  pop-corn  and  cranberries,  gilded 
balls  and  dozens  of  colored  candles.  But  little  Mollie  would  never 
learn  to  walk,  and  he  now  determined  to  bring  Christmas  home  to 
her.  The  spicy  odor  of  the  fresh  evergreens  was  becoming  to  his  sense 
of  holiday  necessities  as  the  smell  of  a  well-cooked  dinner  to  his  long- 
ing appetite,  and  it  was  merely  a  matter  of  wrays  and  means  how  to 
procure  a  real  tree  and  something  to  put  on  it.  No  one  saw  the  theft, 
for  the  pine  trembled  and  seemingly  drooped  its  branches  as  if  to 
conceal  the  unsightly  gash  in  its  side. 

When  Jim  had  hidden  the  bit  of  green  under  an  empty  barrel, 
he  looked  about  for  suitable  trimmings.  Through  the  frosted  window 
he  caught  glimpses  of  tempting  fruits  and  vegetables.  Jim  did  not 
know  the  names  or  the  flavors  of  many  of  them,  but  they  all  looked 
"tasty"  to  the  hungry  boy;   and  his  mouth  began  to  water  at  sight  of 

21  5 


familiar  oranges  and  bananas,  so  that  his  fingers  groped  absently 
about  his  baggy  pockets,  which  seemed  somehow  strangely  accustomed 
to  those  succulent  dainties. 

'  As  I  have  intimated,  Jim's  wits  were  in  partnership  with  two 
nimble  hands,  and  the  next  time  the  shop  door  opened  he  walked  in 
to  get  a  better  view  of  the  Christmas  market.  For  some  time  he  stood 
watching  the  stream  of  holiday  purchasers  ordering  fowl,  vegetables, 
fruit  and  groceries  in  such  quantities  as  almost  to  cause  the  old  cap 
to  rise  from  his  astonished  brow.  As  no  one  noticed  the  small  in- 
truder, he  cautiously  moved  nearer  to  the  boxes  and  barrels  which 
contained  the  special  objects  of  his  covetous  search.  His  face  now 
became  quite  expressionless,  while  his  thin  hands  began  a  curious  out- 
ward motion,  as  if  they  were  attached  to  the  arms  by  rubber  bands 
that  could  be  quickly  lengthened  or  shortened  in  the  region  of  his 
trousers'  pockets.  He  remembered  that  only  the  largest  oranges  and 
apples  could  be  safely  secreted  thus,  (on  account  of  the  propensity 
of  smaller  objects  to  slip  through  the  holes)  and  it  required  care  to 
manipulate  the  fruit  successfully.  Some  peppermint  canes  were  hang- 
ing among  the  holly  wreathes  across  the  big  window,  and  chance 
favored  Jim,  for  a  hurrying  clerk  carelessly  knocked  several  upon  the 
floor,  breaking  the  brittle  candy  into  many  pieces.  No  one  cared  that 
he  picked  them  out  of  the  sawdust,  nor  were  a  few  handfuls  of  cran- 
berries or  nuts  missed  from  their  respective  boxes.  By  this  time,  the 
bosom  of  Jim's  dirty  cotton  shirt  began  to  look  alarmingly  inflated. 

In  the  street  again  to  snatch  his  pine  branch  f.om  its  hiding- 
place;  but  what  a  different  boy  it  was,  scudding  over  the  snowy  pave- 
ment down  an  alley,  up  a  back-street,  around  another  turn  into  a 
teeming  thoroughfare,  dodging  cars,  carts,  and  horses,  along  a  dark 
ill-lighted  by-street  of  the  slums! 

Jim  cautiously  opened  a  door  and  peered  into  the  darkened  spaces 
of  a  room.  "It's  me,  Mollie.  Sure,  Oi's  got  somethin'  fur  ye."  A  soft, 
sibilant  breathing  came  from  the  direction  of  the  bed.  He  felt  his 
way  towards  the  stove,  whose  friendly  eyes  gleamed  cheerily  in  the 
gloom. 

"Mollie!"     He  whispered.     No  answer. 

"Sure,  Oi'll  trim  me  Christmas-tree  and  shurprise  her."  Then  his 
quick  fingers  began  their  labor  of  love.  Propping  the  branch  between 
sticks  of  wood,  he  arranged  the  apples  and  oranges  at  its  base.  It  took 
but  a  moment  to  tie  some  of  the  largest  bits  of  candy  to  the  tiny  tree, 
but  the  cranberries  puzzled  him.  Mother  was  not  due  for  an  hour,  and 
Mollie  might  awaken  before  her  return.  Across  the  hall  lived  Mrs. 
Flinn,  and  Jim's  necessity  might  appeal  to  her  motherly  heart.  He 
was  gone  scarcely  ten  minutes,  bringing  back  a  gorgeous  necklace  of 
the  ruddy  berries  to  crown  the  green  bough  right  royally. 

A  slow,  tired  step  sounded  on  the  stairs,  and  their  mother  came 
in  upon  a  scene  to  lighten  a  heavier  heart  than  hers.     Mollie  sat  with 

206 


tightly  clasped  hands  gazing  at  the  poor  little  pretense  of  Christmas 
joy.  and  Jim — Jim  had  forgotten  that  he  was  a  thief. 


U  XT   DINAH'S  RECIPE   FOR  PLUM-CAKE. 

Yo'  wants  men  rule  fo'  meckin'  Chris'mas  plum-cake?     Bless  my  soul, 
If  I  kin  membah  jes  w'at  goes  en  dat  dyah  yaller  bowl 
Wha  I  done  mix  buttah.  sugar,  aigs.  cur'nts,  cit'on,  raisins,  spice, 
Sence  ole  Miss  brung  hit  f'om  de  chiny-sto',  so  smoove  an'  nice! 
An'  dat  was  'bout  de  time  dat  loony  Yankee,  ole  John  Brown, 
Come  down  so  brash  fo'  tah  g'.t  us  niggahs  en  dis  hyah  town 
Tuh  fight  agin  on'  marsters  dat  we'd  toted  en  ou'  ahms. 
Now.  chile,  don't  meddle  wid  dem  aigs,  de  cake  '11  come  tuh  hahm, 
'Cep'  yo'  cra<  k  'em  jes  so  on  de  aige  o'  dis  hyah  platter. 
I  ain'  perticler  so  'se  dyahs  'nough;  but  mine  how  you  spattah 
Dem  whites  eroun',  meh  honey;    swish  'em  strong,  but  swish  'em  slow 
Twell  dey  piles  up  high'r  an'  high'r  lak  gret  heaps  of  drifted  snow 
Dat  falls  en  a  wintah's  night  tuh  fill  de  mountain  gaps, 
Wha  onct  I  seed  a  movin'  ribber  ob  Yankee  blue-caps 
Come  stealin'  on  ole  Harper's  town.    (Dat  was  befo'  you'se  bohn.) 
Now  I  beats  de  buttah  'n  sugar  lak  1  wollops  111'  Tawm. 
Ncx'  I  sifts  de  flou'. — wha  dai  triflin'  niggah  Car'line? 
Hyah!  mine  dem  yelks,  gai; — seem  lak  yo'  ain'  no  kin  ob  mine! 
Git  dem  stoned  raisins;   dredge  dem  cur'nts.     Am  dat  cit'on  sliced? 
Keep  astir'n.     Hayah  de  brandy.     (  Tink  dat  dough  am  proper  spiced?) 
X  vah  seed  a  bettah  battah  en  dat  ole  yaller  mouf! 
Might  aknowed  "Aunt  Dinah"  mecks  de  bes'  plum-cake  en  de  Souf! 
Well,  now,  meh  honey,  you-alls  talkin'  sense;  w'en  Chris'mas  comin' 
Kinder  mecks  meh  ole  bones  younger,  's  ef  I  heahs  de  banjo  strummin'; 
But  jes  mine  dis  po'tant  rule, — spite  ob  good  tings,  sich  an'  sich, 
Wen   yo'   gits   'em   all   tuhgedder,    'tis   gumption   mecks  de   plum-cake 
rich!  — Helen  Clark  Balmer. 


A  LEGEND. 


A  mountrrn-spring  once  came  a  long  journey  from  the  depths  of 
the  dark  old  earth,  and  struggled  through  rough  stones  and  sand  to 
reach  the  light,  so  that  she  could  lay  her  firstborn  in  a  cosy,  mossy 
hollow.  For  some  time  the  little  one  slept  in  its  fern-curtained  cradle; 
but  one  day  a  saucy  zephyr  parted  the  delicate  green  draperies,  and 
the  prying  sun  peeped  in.  When  he  saw  what  a  delicious  drink  the 
cool  water  would  be  for  his  parched  lips,  he  began  to  beckon  with  his 
long  fingers  to  the  lazy,  sleepy  little  pool  to  come  outjaiil  the  zephyr, 
being  an  idle  fellow,  whispered  that  he  knew  a  fine  game  for  the  three 
to  play.  At  first  the  water  wrinkled  its  placid  face,  being  loth  to  leave 
the  cool   gloom   behind   the   beautiful,  quivering  ferns;    but  when   its 

2<>7 


mother  said  that  it  might  go,  very  soon  out  came  one  tiny  foot  and 
then  the  other,  shyly  displaying  their  crystal  slippers.  The  poor, 
innocent  pool  found  itself  at  the  top  of  a  great  hill,  and  it  could  see 
nothing  but  a  great  blue  wall  before  it  and  the  burning  face  of  the 
sun.  "Ha!  ha!"  laughed  the  merry  fellow,  "now  I'll  have  my  drink!" 
And  the  sly  zephyr,  which  had  changed  itself  into  a  mighty  wind  by 
this  time,  joined  in  with  a  whistle,  "I'm  thirsty  too."  (For  a  sad 
pair  of  rogues  are  the  sun  and  the  wind  when  they  play  together.) 

The  little  brook,  for  that  was  its  name  now,  thought  that  it  must 
run  for. its  life;  and  gathering  all  its  strength,  it  dashed  bravely  down- 
hill until,  gaining  the  level  meadows,  it  paused  for  breath,  while  the 
kind  clouds  muffled  the  scorching  sun,  and  the  fickle  wind  went  off 
to  chase  boys'  hats  and  to  disturb  peaceful  people  generally. 

The  little  brook  began  to  feel  swollen  with  pride,  because  it  im- 
agined that  it  had  won  the  race;  and  meeting  a  few  rough  rocks 
and  knobby  pebbles  in  its  path,  it  fretted  and  murmured  because  they 
were  not  covered  with  soft,  comfortable  moss.  When  the  clovers  and 
pretty  blue-eyed  grasses  wanted  to  bathe  their  faces  in  the  clear  water, 
the  brook  became  really  uncivil,  chattering  and  fuming,  as  if  it  were 
made  for  better  things  than  to  be  a  posy's  basin.  But  when  the  cold 
night  came  and  stared  down  with  thousands  of  sharp,  glittering  eyes, 
how  the  foolish  brook  wished  for  the  broad  smile  of  the  jolly  old  sun 
to  warm  its  shivering  waters!  and  how  glad  it  w  uld  have  been  to 
feel  the  gentle  touch  of  the  flowers  in  that  lonely  darkness! 

By-and-by  the  morning  dawned,  as  mornings  will,  and  the  brook 
was  humbled  enough  to  be  on  better  terms  with  the  new  day.  Al- 
though often  finding  fault  with  the  big  stones  which  came  in  its  way, 
the  brook  continued  to  travel  far  into  a  beautiful  country  during  the 
long  summer  and  autumn.  Used  to  moving  along  at  its  own  pleasure, 
it  was  much  alarmed,  one  night,  when  a  flock  of  tiny  frost-elves  flew 
down  from  the  far  skies  and  touched  its  waters  with  shining  wands 
of  ice.  After  that  the  poor  stream  lay  as  cold  and  still  as  a  stone. 
The  big,  warm-hearted  sun  really  felt  sorry,  and  tried  to  kiss  it  back 
to  life,  while  the  wind  whispered  soft  promises  of  better  treatment, 
if  it  would  only  run  on  once  more.  Then  grim  Winter  came  by  and 
muffled  every  object  in  his  white  furs,  so  that  the  earth  seemed  to 
sleep  in  sympathy  with  the  brook.  Only  the  sun  and  the  wind  had  life 
and  motion;  until,  one  day,  the  brook  felt  a  thousand  sharp  pricks 
thrill  through  its  cold,  stiff  body,  while  something  inside  seemed  to 
crack  and  shiver  the  hard  bands  tnat  held  its  tender  form.  Suddenly 
all  the  pent-up  life  leaped  and  rushed  forward,  tearing  off  the  terrible 
shroud  of  ice.  At  last  it  was  free;  and  with  a  sound  of  unutterable 
joy,  it  splashed  and  poured  down,  down  a  rocky  steep,  and  so,  ever- 
more, was  called  "Laughing-Water." — Helen  C.  Balmer. 


208 


A  FABLE  ABOUT  GEMS. 

An  earnest  youth  once  applied  to  the  chief  goldsmith  in  his  town 
to  learn  the  art  of  making  beautiful  and  ornamental  things. 

He  had  heard  that  the  goldsmith  was  a  particular  workman,  hav- 
ing a  refined  sense  of  beauty  and  a  regard  to  fitness  in  the  selection 
of  every  jewel  to  be  used,  besides  a  rare  honor  about  duplicating 
another  man's  pattern  or  design.  And  when  he  stood  before  this 
serious  craftsman,  he  hoped  that  his  willingness  to  work  hard  would 
gain  for  him  the  privilege  of  becoming  an  apprentice.  The  goldsmith 
noticed  the  youth's  clear  eyes  and  slender  hands,  and  at  once  took 
him  into  the  storeroom  where  all  the  most  beautiful  and  choicest 
articles  for  adornment  were  kept. 

"Look  at  these  carefully,  my  son;  examine  their  workmanship; 
enjoy  what  is  best;  and,  by-and-by,  you  may  come  into  my  lapidary- 
shop  and  learn  the  uses  of  the  tools  and  the  wheel  which  are  only  for 
advanced  workmen.  I  cannot  trust  you  with  them  now;  but  try  to 
detect  if  there  be  any  flaws  in  all  these  brilliant  objects;  and  some- 
time you  will  become  adept  in  choosing  the  most  appropriate  jewels 
for  your  purpose." 

Then  the  master  opened  a  ponderous  chest,  dark  with  age,  con- 
taining thousands  of  shining  stones  neatly  arranged  in  twenty-six 
trays.  Lightly  touching  one  here  and  there,  he  said,  "These  are  the 
real  riches  of  Time,  cut  and  polished  by  the  hands  of  great  craftsmen. 
And  when  you  understand  their  value,  see  to  it  that  you  make  their 
silver  or  golden  setting  absolutely  your  own,  for  a  design  is  sacrecl 
to  its  maker.  You  need  not  hope  to  improve  upon  these  royal  rubies, 
emeralds,  diamonds,  or  sapphires,  for  their  facets  already  reflect 
the  mysterious  colors  of  nature.  Some  have  come  to  us  from  other 
treasuries,  exquisite  in  shape  and  full  of  lustre;  others  are  the  often- 
neglected  gems  of  our  humbler  forefathers,  whose  pearls,  amethysts, 
and  garnets  yet  have  graced  the  queen  called  Fame." 

Then,  pointing  to  the  priceless  tiaras,  brooches,  bracelets,  and 
rings  that  shone  in  their  cases  on  the  walls,  the  goldsmith  went  away 
and  left  the  youth  in  the  midst  of  all  that  pure  and  radiant  beauty. 

Awhile  he  lingered,  studying  closely  those  unique  or  costly  settings 
until  a  light  began  to  burn  in  his  own  soul.  Somehow  he  found  at 
hand  a  bit  of  gold  and  melted  it  in  the  flame  of  his  thought.  Then 
swiftly  he  wrought  it  into  a  form,  and  deftly  set  it  with  glowing  stones 
taken  from  the  ancient  chest  near  by.  At  last  it  lay  in  his  palm — a 
simple  ring,  but  all  his  own;  and,  trembling  with  the  wine  of  pride, 
he  went  and  gave  it  to  his  master.  And  thus,  touching  hand  to  hand, 
all  was  changed.  The  apprenticed-youth  saw  himself  a  student;  the 
jewel-room  a  library;  the  chest  of  richest  stories  a  dictionary;  his 
ring  a  poem;    and  the  master, — who  shall  say? — Helen  Clark  Balmer. 


209 


THE    GYPSY'S   GRAVE. 

It  was  a  little  low  mound,  scarce  three  feet  long,  hidden  in  the 
summer  grasses  which  mantled  the  sloping  shoulder  of  a  village  hill- 
side. Although  unmarked  and  sunken,  that  bit  of  heaped-up  earth 
had  the  unmistakable  narrow  rounded  shape  which  ever  denotes  the 
last  resting-place  of  something  that  has  once  been  alive  and  human. 
Almost  stumbling  over  it,  I  drew  back  with  the  instinctive  awe  that 
holds  us  in  the  presence  of  the  dead.  And,  as  if  it  were  an  open 
casket  or  a  cradle,  I  saw  the  dreamless  little  form  beneath, — the  pretty- 
hands  shut  like  pale  rosebuds,  folded  leaf  on  leaf;  the  pure  face,  a 
mask  of  frozen  beauty;  the  tiny,  quiet  feet  pressed  against  the  silken 
nest;  and  the  soft  white  dress  strewn  with  blossoms  and  wet  with 
tears. 

Not  twenty  rods  away  was  the  rough  stone  wall  of  a  burial-ground, 
where,  in  decorous  order,  were  gathered  the  graves  of  the  village 
dead.  Here  and  there,  through  the  green  gloom  of  cypress  and  cedar, 
could  be  seen  a  few  white  fingers  of  stone  pointing  piteously  to 
Heaven;  plots  of  roses  giving  all  their  sweetness  to  the  still,  warm 
air  and  bright-plumaged  birds  piping  sleepy  vespers  to  the  myrtle- 
crowned  mounds.  Why  was  this  little  one  ai  my  feet  left  outside  to 
the  chance  notice  of  passers-by,  with  never  a  stone  nor  a  flower  to 
make  the  mound  seem  other  than  a  hillock  in  the  wild  field-grass? 
And  then  I  divined  the  story — a  mere  clause  in  the  great  book  of 
human  sorrow — that  a  band  of  gypsies  coming  to  the  peaceful  village 
left  their  dead  baby  as  near  to  the  Christian  graves  as  they  dared, 
and  then  went  on  their  aimless  way,  looking  back,  perhaps,  through 
tears  as  real  as  mine. — Helen  Clark  Balmer. 


MY  ROOMMATE. 

When  I  first  saw  my  present  roommate,  he  was  resting  comfortably 
in  the  apartment  that  he  had  been  occupying  by  himself  all  summer. 
He  was  of  very  attractive  appearance,  and  although  I  had  never  seen 
him  before,  I  felt  no  hesitation  in  offering  to  room  with  him.  I 
at  once  discovered  that  he  was  of  a  quiet,  uncommunicative  dispo- 
sition, and  that  he  did  not  care  to  talk  about  himself.  In  fact, 
as  long  as  we  have  roomed  together,  he  has  never  told  me  even  a 
single  thing  about  his  past  life.  I  probably  could  not  understand 
him  if  he  did  attempt  to  give  me  the  desired  information,  for  the 
reason  that  he  is  unable  to  speak  a  word  of  English. 

At  present  he  is  not  taking  any  studies  in  school  or  college,  and  for 
many  reasons  I  am  led  to  believe  that  he  has  never  even  been  inside 
an  educational  institution  or  received  instruction  from  a  single 
teacher.  Nearly  every  evening,  however,  he  helps  me  on  some  one 
or  more  of  my  lessons,  and  to-night — must  I  confess  it? — he  is  help- 

210 


Ing  me  write  this  character  sketch  about  himself.  Although  he  is 
entirely  ignorant  of  the  subject  of  this  article,  he  has,  nevertheless, 
been  giving  me  a  great  deal  of  light  on  doubtful  points.  He  seems 
to  be  equally  as  capable  of  helping  in  Calculus  as  in  English,  in  Latin 
as  in  German,  in  psychology  as  in  physics. 

He  is  very  unselfish  in  all  his  enterprises,  preferring  rather  to 
lighten  the  burdens  of  others  than  to  labor  for  himself.  He  is  some- 
what peculiar  also  in  his  habits  of  work,  resting  all  day  so  as  to 
be  in  better  shape  for  the  evening,  when  he  has  the  most  to  do. 
I  sometimes  think  that  his  health  is  poor,  as  he  is  sure  to  get  the 
spring  fever  every  year,  and  does  less  arid  less  work  every  day  of 
the  spring.  He  is  very  agreeable  about  it,  however,  and  always 
works  when  I  want  him,  and  never  keeps  on  when  I  tell  him  to  stop. 

Although  he  has  very  few  intimate  friends,  he  never  appears  to 
be  lonesome.  One  of  his  friends,  who  calls  regularly  every  day,  1 
am  especially  glad  to  see  on  account  of  his  good  influence  over  my 
roommate  in  getting  the  latter  to  work  for  me.  The  influence  of  this 
visitor,  however,  is  not  entirely  beneficial,  as  he  nearly  always  leaves 
my  roommate  "full,"  although  he  has  never,  so  far  as  I  know,  "had 
his  skates  on." 

Bad  as  it  is  to  be  a  slave  to  drink,  I  find  that  this  daily  practice 
of  "getting  full"  keeps  my  roommate  at  home  evenings:  at  least 
it  prevents  him  from  "going  out  nights."  The  few  times  when  he 
has  succeeded  in  going  out  in  the  evening,  I  have  become  so  lone- 
some that  I  would  not  stay  at  home  without  him.  His  worst  habit, 
however,  is  that  of  smoking  in  the  room.  But  he  never  does  this 
while  I  am  watching  him,  and  if  I  catch  him  at  it,  he  always  stops. 
One  evening  I  left  him  at  work  while  I  went  out  for  a  stroll,  and 
when  I  came  back,  I  found  that  he  had  been  sending  out  so  much 
smoke  that  the  room  was  nearly  full  of  it.  It  is  very  peculiar, 
though,  that  when  he  smokes  the  most,  he  does  the  hardest  work. 

To  offset  these  bad  habits  he  has  many  good  traits,  which  make 
him  a  pleasant  roommate.  Although  he  is  very  "brassy,"  he  never 
asks  favors  of  me;  he  never  does  any  gossiping,  nor  tells  any  secrets; 
he  never  whistles  or  hums  while  I  am  studying,  never  slams  the 
door  or  beats  the  floor  with  his  feet;  but,  best  of  all,  i*e  never  keeps 
me  awake  at  night  by  snoring. 

We  never  have  any  disagreements  or  quarrels:  he  doesn't  awake 
me  too  early  in  the  morning,  and  he  always  approves  of  my  decisions 
in  regard  to  the  heat  and  the  ventilation  of  the  room.  In  fact,  during 
the  short  time  that  we  have  been  acquainted,  we  have  become  such 
firm  friends  that  I  can  hardly  get  along  without  him,  for  my  room- 
mate is  none  other  than  my  kerosene  lamp. — Robert  J.  Hamilton. 


A   MYSTERIOUS   CALLER. 

How  quiet  our  hall  was  that  night!     How  strange  it  seemed  to  pass 

fill 


along  the  corridors  without  meeting  half  a  dozen  merry  girls  with 
their  pleasant  greeting!  The  rooms,  too,  were  no  longer  resonant 
with  the  sound  of  voices  repeating  Clark's  "thirty-nine  articles." 
Everything  plainly  told  us  that  the  holidays  were  here  and  that 
most  of  the  girls  were  at  their  homes.  Only  five  of  us  were  left 
to  enjoy,  as  best  we  could,  the  holiday  season  in  our  college  home. 
Several  days  had  passed  pleasantly,  but  we  were  tired  of  the  cus- 
tomary pleasures  and  were  wishing  for  something  unusual  to  happen. 
Mae,  one  of  our  number,  was  in  the  city  and  was  not  expected  to 
return  until  late  in  the  evening.  We  went  into  the  parlor,  and  taking 
our  places  before  the  open  grate,  decided  to  tell  stories  of  personal 
adventure  until  Mae,  the  leader  of  our  sports,  should  return.  Our 
tales  were  interrupted  by  the  ringing  of  the  door  bell.  We  knew 
that  it  must  be  Mae.  although  we  did  not  expect  her  so  soon.  Widen- 
ing our  circle,  we  drew  up  the  easiest  chair  ready  to  receive  her. 
Imagine  our  surprise  when  we  found  that  it  was  not  Mae  after  all 
but  a  gentleman.  No  one  seemed  to  know  him.  He  asked  for  a 
Miss  Smith,  who  had  graduated  two  years  before,  saying  that  he  was 
her  cousin,  and  that  he  had  just  arrived  from  Germany.  He  had  not 
heard  from  her  recently,  but  understood  that  she  was  still  in  Evanston. 
He  spoke  of  the  different  members  of  her  family  and  their  town, 
relating  many  facts  well  known  to  us.  Although  he  was  very  much 
disappointed  in  not  finding  her  here,  the  suggestion  of  one  of  our 
number  that  a  journey  of  about  six  hours  would  take  him  to  her 
home  seemed  only  to  increase  his  agitation.  At  last,  he  arose.  We 
breathed  easier,  thinking  that  we  were  about  to  get  rid  of  him;  but 
instead  of  leaving  he  walked  the  floor  in  thoughtful  silence.  He 
manifested  such  grief  that  our  sympathies  were  aroused.  We  no 
longer  feared  him,  but  were  ready  and  anxious  to  help  him  if  we 
only  knew  what  to  do.  Finally,  he  decided  to  tell  us  the  whole  story, 
hoping  that  we  could  show  him  some  way  out  of  the  difficulty. 

Stopping  suddenly  in  his  walk,  he  said,  "Just  before  reaching 
Chicago,  I  discovered  that  my  purse  containing  my  railroad  ticket 
and  all  the  money  "that  I  had  with  me,  had  been  lost  or  stolen.  I 
immediately  told  my  father,  who  was  traveling  with  me,  of  my  mis- 
fortune, and  much  to  my  surprise,  found  that  he  had  only  fifty  cents 
in  cash  besides  a  check,  which  he  expected  to  have  cashed  as  soon 
as  he  reached  the  end  of  his  journey.  He  gave  me  the  fifty  cents, 
and  told  me  to  go  to  Evanston  and  visit  my  cousin  until  he  could 
cash  the  check  and  send  me  the  necessary  money  to  finish  my  journey. 
Now  it  is  Saturday  night,  and  I  am  a  stranger  without  money  or 
friends  in  a  strange  city." 

This  story  had  the  desired  effect.  One  of  our  number,  more  tender- 
hearted than  the  rest,  offered  to  help  him  out  of  his  difficulty  by 
lending  him  the  required  ten  dollars.  He  gladly  accepted  the  loan, 
promising  to  return  it  as  soon  as  he  reached  his  cousin's.  He  was 
soon  gone,  leaving  us  much  relieved;  but  as  we  took  our  places  about 

212 


the  fireside  and  talked  over  this  new  experience  with  Mae,  who 
had  returned  soon  after  the  departure  of  the  stranger,  we  lost  all  con- 
fidence in  him  and  his  story.  Our  fears  were  not  groundless,  for 
as  the  days  passed  and  nothing  was  heard  of  the  stranger  or  the 
ten  dollars,  we  wrote  to  Miss  Smith  and  found  that  she  had  no 
cousin,  nor  had  she  been  visited  by  any  such  person  as  we  described. 

About  two  weeks  had  passed.  The  girls  had  returned  from  their 
vacation  and  had  talked  over  the  many  pleasures  of  the  holiday 
season;  but  the  story  of  the  mysterious  caller  was  carefully  guarded. 
One  girl  especially  seemed  to  have  lost  all  relish  for  this  particular 
adventure.  Indeed,  she  never  mentioned  it  even  to  her  roommate  until 
Mae,  thinking  that  the  joke  had  been  carried  far  enough,  came  into 
her  room,  and  said,  "Here  is  your  ten  dollars.  Don't  ever  lend  to 
a  stranger  again.     I  was  the  mysterious  caller." — Sarah  V.  Harden. 


"THE   SCARLET   LETTER." 
An  Episode  at  Woman's  Hall. 

On  the  morning  after  the  sleighride  she  came  down  to  break- 
fast with  a  pale  and  haggard  face.  The  half-awake  girls  around  the 
table  glanced  up  from  their  oranges,  and  smiling  a  sleepy  "good- 
morning,"  asked,  "Did  you  have  a  good  time  last  night,  Jean?"  "Oh, 
yes;  dandy!  But  to  think  of  all  the  lessons  for  to-day!"  and  she 
sighed  wearily  at  this,  cruelly  reminded  of  the  solemn  duties  of  life; 
the  girls  all  sighed  in  a  chorus,  and  then  silently  returned  to  their 
oranges. 

When  the  quiet  little  freshman  came  in,  she  cried  to  the  tired  girl, 
"Why,  Jean!  what  is  the  matter  with  your  face?" 

"Nothing,"  said  Jean,  innocently.     "Why?" 

"Oh,  I  only  asked  you,"  and  smiling  quietly  the  freshman  began 
her  breakfast.  But  after  a  while  she  looked  up  with,  "Jean,  what 
are  the  initials  of  the  man  whom  you  went  with  last  night?" 

"T.  E.  B." 

"And  you  are  sure  that  his  name  does  not  begin  with  H?" 

"Yes,  I  am.  But  it  seems  to  me  that  you  are  unduly  inquisitive 
this  morning." 

"Well,   my    dear,    just   you   turn   this   cheek   around   to   the  other 
girls."      Jean   turned,   and   there,   standing    boldly   out  upon   the    pale, 
cheek  was  a  bright  scarlet  H.     Not  a  faint,  sprawling  letter    but  one 
clearly  and   artistically   formed.     With   wonder   and  amazement  Jean 
regarded  the  girls  while  they  laughed  at  her  "sign-board  face." 

"It  isn't  there!  I  know  that  it  isn't  there!"  she  declared.  "No, 
I  didn't  look  in  the  mirror  this  morning,  but  I  am  perfectly  sure 
that  no  hieroglyphics  have  been  carved  on  my  face  during  the  night." 

"Oh,   don't   pretend   to    us   that   you    can't   explain    it!     What   did 

•l  l :{ 


you  do   on   that  sleighride,  anyway?     Whom  did  you  allow  to  brand 
you  for  his  own?" 

"No  one!  And  if  that  absurd  thing  is  on  my  cheek  I  know  noth- 
ing about  it,"  declared  the  now  indignant  girl. 

"Don't  you,  truly?"  her  companions  asked  wonderingly.  "Why, 
what  do  you  suppose  it  means?  Where  did  it  come  from?  Who  could 
have  put  it  there?"  and  at  once  they  began  an  attempt  to  explain  the 
scarlet  letter.  Jean  declared  that  she  had  neither  slept  on  marked 
linen  nor  allowed  anyone  to  paint  her  face.  The  humor  of  the 
situation  was  soon  lost;  and  to  these  sentimental  young  women,  the 
red  brand  on  the  pale  cheek  became  nothing  short  of  a  mystery.  The 
two  wise  seniors  attempted  to  explain  it  logically,  but  failed.  Then 
they  protected  themselves  with  Professor  C — 's  statement  that  there 
are  some  things  which  cannot  be  explained.  "Jean,  Jean!"  cried 
the  sophomore,  "do  you  know  that  last  night  was  St.  Agnes'  Eve,  the 
time  when  girls  dream  of  their  lovers  and  receive  signs  from  their 
future  husbands?  Did  you  dream  of  a  man?" 
Jean  blushingly  admitted  that  she  did. 
"And  did  his  name  begin  with  H?" 
"No." 

"Oh,  bother!  Why  didn't  it!"  exclaimed  the  disappointed  senti- 
mentalist. 

"Oh,  the  letter  stands  for  Harvard,  the  university  of  her  lover," 
cried  one  of  these  knowing  girls.     "But  how  did  it  get  there?" 
"  'Aye,  there's  the  rub,'  "  quoted  Jean. 

"It's  the  devil's  work,  that's  what  it  is, — the  devil's  work!"  cried 
one  of  the  waitresses  in  a  frightened  whisper. 

"Go  to  Zan  Zan,  the  fortune  teller;  he  will  explain  it.  Go  pay 
your  fifty  cents  and  hear  the  truth  about  the  mystery,"  cried  one 
of  the  girls  in  a  "side-show  voice." 

By  this  time  the  talk  had  grown  loud  and  excited,  and  poor 
Jean  was  compelled  to  spin  around  like  a  top  so  that  all  might 
see  the  scarlet  H.  Attracted  by  the  commotion,  the  dean  and  the 
matron  came  up,  and  they,  also,  must  needs  hear  the  whole  story. 
Jean,  excited  beyond  control,  repeated  again  and  again,  "I  know 
nothing  about  it!  I  didn't  put  it  there; — no  one  put  it  there!  I  know 
nothing  about  it!"  The  dean,  seeing  at  once  that  the  girls  were 
innocent,  set  about  in  her  quiet  way  to  solve  the  mystery.  At  first 
she  satisfied  herself  that  it  was  neither  the  result  of  a  sorority 
initiation  nor  of  a  practical  joke.  Next,  she  went  down  on  the 
ground  floor,  to  Jean's  room,  in  order  to  search  for  a  clue.  She 
found  the  window  partly  raised,  the  iron  grating  removed,  and  foot- 
prints in  the  snow  outside.  Was  this  a  solution  of  the  problem,  or 
was  it  not?  What  law-breaker  would  have  entered  the  room  only  to 
paint  a  letter  on  the  cheek  of  a  sleeping  girl?  The  dean  was  puzzled; 
yes,    she    was    worried.     Meanwhile    the    matron    had    come    in', — the 

214 


matron  who  for  sixteen  years  had  relieved  the  troubles  and  forgiven 
the  pranks  of  school-girls.  "Let  me  look  at  that,"  she  demanded,  set- 
ting down  a  bowl  of  warm  water,  and  diving  into  her  pocket  for  a  cake 
■of  soap.  "Come  here."  And  poor  Jean  came,  submitting  with  all 
possible  grace  to  an  unmerciful  scrubbing.  But  in  vain  was  all  the 
soap  and  water,  in  vain  was  all  the  scrubbing.  Although  somewhat 
dimmer,  there  the  letter  still  remained,  red  and  bright  and  myste- 
rious. 

This-  must  be  explained, — it  must,  it  must!"  cried  the  dean. 
'I  cannot  have  my  girls  tattooed  while  they  are  sleeping!  I  shall 
send  for  the  president  of  the  university.     I  cannot  understand  it." 

"Nor  I."  echoed  the  matron. 

•Nor  I,"  murmured  the  girls. 

"I  do."  cried  the  hysterical  waitress,  "I  do!  It's  the  work  o'  the 
divil.  1  tell  ye!"  Soon  the  president  entered,  and  with  his  self- 
satisfied  air  and  his  trembling  ahem,  he  assured  them  that  all  would 
be  revealed  in  a  few  moments.  But  after  he  had  examined  the 
window,  the  foot-prints,  and  the  scarlet  letter,  he  shook  his  head. 
Even  he  could  offer  no  explanation.  The  letter  was  there, — but  how 
came  it  there?  Everyone  looked  at  everyone  else.  There  was  now  no 
higher  court.  Would  the  mystery  always  remain  unsolved?  A  noise 
was  heard  at  the  window,  and  everyone  turned,  only  to  see  the 
janitor  replacing  the  grating.  "Some  o'  them  wires  was  broke,"  he 
explained,  "and  I  took  it  out  while  ye  was  at  breakfast  to  mend  'em." 
and  so  the  open  window  and  the  foot-prints  were  accounted  for. 
Every  one  breathed  easier  and  turned  back — only  to  behold  Jean's 
face  branded  with  the  still  mysterious  H.  The  dean  paced  the  floor; 
the  president  scratched  his  head.  Every  girl  held  her  breath  and 
waited.  "Oh."  screamed  Jean,  and  bounding  across  to  her  bed,  she 
drew  out  from  beside  her  pillow  the  latest  novel,  and  there  on  the 
cover  was — a  scarlet  H. — Hazel  Shelton  Reid. 


MY  BROTHER. 

This  brother  of  mine  has  just  reached  the  interesting  age  of  seven- 
teen. He  is  tall,  strong,  and  broad-shouldered;  his  skin  is  slightly 
dark;  his  high  forehead  is  crowned  by  a  mass  of  wavy  brown  hair, 
which  has  learned,  by  experience,  to  part  in  the  middle;  his  eyes 
are  brown  and  expressive,  so  that  one  who  knows  him  can  tell  at 
a  glance  whether  he  is  happy  or  downcast,  mischievous  or  thought- 
ful. He  is  generally  considered  handsome,  and  shares  the  popular 
belief  himself.  Indeed,  the  sidelong  glances  which  he  bestows  on 
his  pocket  mirror  would  betoken  vanity  in  a  girl. 

He  has  just  reached  that  period  wherein  every  young  gentleman 
begins  to  glory  in  faultless  attire,  and  in  which  brilliant  neckties,  high 
collars,  and  patent-leather  shoes  are  a  delight  unto  the  soul,  while 
as  yet  these  articles  are  not  worn  with  the  ease  of  his  elders. 

21.-) 


He  has  just  completed  his  second  year  at  the  high-school,  where  his 
lessons  are  prepared  in  a  happy-go-lucky  style.  Each  year  he  declares 
to  be  his  last  in  school,  and  he  longs  to  begin  civil  engineering.  He  fills 
his  room — that  apartment  which  reveals  so  clearly  the  characteristics 
of  the  occupant — with  tiny  engines,  photographic  apparatus,  and 
various  other  scientific  machines  of  his  own  invention. 

He  possesses  all  of  a  boy's  love  for  out-door  sports,  and  holds 
his  own  in  tennis,  base-ball,  and  foot-ball;  while  wrestling  and  swim- 
ming are  his  favorite  pastimes. 

Like  most  boys  of  his  age,  he  has  great  admiration  for  the  other 
sex,  and  delights  in  those  little  attentions  which  are  pleasing  to 
maidens,  though  perhaps  I  should  add  that  he  is  a  trifle  more  polite 
to  his  sister  in  company  than  when  unobserved.  He  always  has  a 
favorite  girl-friend;  but  let  her  enjoy  her  supremacy  while  she  may, 
for  she  will  soon  be  supplanted  by  a  rival,  who  will  receive  just  as 
many  calls,  just  as  many  bon-bons.  When  summoned  to  meet  his 
sister's  friends,  this  young  gentleman  storms  and  fumes,  but  after 
much  coaxing  he  appears  in  the  parlor  in  the  most  becoming  manner, 
and  goes  through  the  presentation  process  as  gracefully  as  if  it  were 
his  greatest  joy  to  make  new  acquaintances. 

As  is  often  the  case,  I  fear  not  much  is  to  be  said  concerning 
his  religious  life,  although  he  has  that  warm  affection  for  his  mother 
which  keeps  many  a  boy  from  going  far  astray.  He  goes  to  church 
Sunday  nights,  and,  once  in  a  while,  honors  the  Sunday-school  with 
his  presence;  but  meanwhile  he  airs  many  lofty  notions  about  the 
uselessness  of  church  attendance,  the  inconsistency  of  Christian  peo- 
ple, and  kindred  subjects  on  which  he  possesses  not  a  single  original 
idea.  He  also  inclines  slightly  to  the  silver  rule,  "Do  unto  others 
as  they  do  unto  you,"  for  he  has  inherited  the  hasty  temper  of  an 
English  grandfather,  and  demands  revenge  to  the  last  degree. 

Of  course  he  is  a  tease.  He  boasts  to  me,  in  language  so  inter- 
spersed with  slang  as  to  be  almost  unintelligible  to  one  unaccustomed 
to  the  diction  of  a  boy,  of  his  attempts  to  smoke,  his  success  in  learning 
to  flirt,  and  other  follies  which  he  professes  to  consider  a  credit 
to  his  manhood;  but  let  him  discover  a  pained  expression  on  my 
face  and  instantly,  forgetting  that  he  must  sustain  his  reputation 
as  a  "swell,"  he  drops  his  lofty  air  and  says  penitently,  "Oh,  gee, 
sis,  I  won't  do  it  again!  Let's  shake  on  it."  And  so  a  hand-shake, 
to  him  as  binding  as  an  oath,  dispels  one  after  another  of  his  mis- 
demeanors. 

Thus  he  is  a  merry,  careless  boy  with  all  a  boy's  pranks  and 
failings;  but  he  possesses  besides  a  certain  manliness  and  a  warm, 
true  heart,  which  awaits  only  the  proper  development  to  make  of 
him  a  man  noble  and  useful. — Stella  A.  Chappell. 


216 


THE  OLD   BLACK  DEVIL. 

We  got  him  at  Laramie.  We  had  asked  the  man  for  a  young, 
spirited,  and  high-stepping  beast.  Moreover,  we  desired  that  there 
should  be  compounded  with  these  qualities  as  much  gentleness  as 
might  be  logically  consistent,  so  that  an  easy  getting  up  and  a  safe 
getting  down  could  be  predicted  with  reasonable  certainty.  When, 
however,  the  good  man  spoke  of  an  "old  black  devil,"  retired  to 
the  field,  we  at  once  closed  the  deal,  on  general  principles,  and  the 
Devil  became  once  more  an  active  member  of  his  race. 

As  a  horse,  he  would  have  been  considered  exceptional  in  almost 
any  part  of  the  world  because  of  age,  decrepitude,  and  general  lack 
of  substance,  but  at  Laramie  he  was  classed  as  an  average  animal 
only.  In  some  respects,  therefore,  he  was  no  beauty.  Advanced  age 
and  severe  toil  had  destroyed  alarmingly  those  graceful  lines  of  neck 
and  shoulder  found  in  well-groomed  horses.  His  body  was  scarred 
and  seamed  from  many  years  of  hardships.  His  coal  black  hair 
showed  the  ravages  of  time,  and  moth  patches  played  hide  and  seek 
over  his  ribs.  The  creases  down  his  sides  spoke  many  pathetic  vol- 
umes of  trouble  long  endured. 

His  forelegs  were  gnarled  and  knotted  like  the  limbs  of  an  ancient 
but  sturdy  oak.  Beneath  the  right  fetlofck  the  inhuman  barbed  wire 
had  left  a  terrible  scar,  and  an  ugly  mark  upon  the  left  shoulder 
testified  to  the  galling  collar.  Behind,  his  legs  were  crippled  from 
rheumatism,  and  the  veins  stood  out  like  cords.  The  hips  were  high 
and  pointed,  and  there  were  cavernous  hollows  underneath.  His  teeth 
were  worn  and  broken;  his  eyes,  hard  and  lusterless;  his  expression, 
haggard;  his  bearing,  stubborn.  His  backbone  was  like  a  rail,  and 
ended  in  a  tail  that  was  short  and  thin  and  no  longer  in  active 
service.  He  had  long  ceased  to  contend  with  his  winged  enemies. 
The  mosquitoes  sucked  his  blood;  the  flies  ate  his  flesh;  his  skin 
was  stretched  as  a  parchment  over  his  bones;  and  the  sound  of  the 
whip  re-echoed  within  his  body. 

Once,  we  were  told,  he  had  delighted  to  place  his  iron-shod  heel 
on  the  stomach  of  his  friend  in  token  of  good  fellowship;  to  run  as 
the  wind,  no  one  pursuing;  to  jump  fences  upon  no  provocation.  Now 
he  was  stiff  as  a  poker,  and  to  lift  his  feet  from  the.  ground  was  a 
wearisome  task. 

But  he  was  a  sagacious  old  fellow;  conservative;  not  given  rashly 
to  reforms.  To  conserve  his  energies  he  traveled  upon  three  legs — 
no  particular  three — any  three.  His  gait,  consequently,  was  not 
rhythmical.  His  periods  of  vibration  were  never  predicted  with  exact- 
ness, but  were  always  recorded  with  a  startling  thoroughness. 

We  paid  five  dollars  for  him.  He  was  worth  many  more  merely 
as  a  study  in  character.  We  obtained  a  saddle  for  six  dollars.  It 
was  worth  a  hundred  merely  as  a  relic.  We  picked  up  a  club  from 
the  roadside  for  a  whip.     It  was  worth  what  it  cost — nothing. 

217 


Ah,  but  he  was  a  gay  old  fellow  when  harnessed  for  the  fray,  with 
his  smoking  nostrils  and  flashing  eye,  a  flag  behind  his  ear,  and  the 
brave  and  gallant  rider  on  his  back!  Truly,  a  steed  for  young 
Lochinvar!     And  yet  how  sad!     God  rest  his  bones!— F.  J.  Truby. 


THE    AMERICAN    RHINE. 

Man  may  claim  to  be  above  nature,  but  he  cannot  be  iiidepandent  of 
her.  A  person  having  a  mind  susceptible  to  the  beautiful  can  but 
acknowledge  that  nature  is  full  of  beauty. 

It  is  early  morning  on  the  Hudson.  As  the  sun  lifts  its  h2ad 
above  the  eastern  horizon,  the  clouds  are  tinged  with  gorreous  colors. 
Even  the  birds  feel  the  charm  of  the  rising  sun  and  fill  the  fresh 
morning  air  with  their  song.  As  we  sail  along,  we  think  how,  l» 
former  days,  the  grim  savage  used  to  paddle  his  bark  and  seal  ... 
the  banks  for  game  and  foe.  Even  now  we  see  him  rise  slowly  in 
his  canoe  and  place  his  hands  over  his  sharp  dark  eyes — scanning 
the  opposite  bank — and  then  cautiously  make  his  way  to  shore. 
Pushing  aside  the  dense  growth  and  underbrush  that  skirts  the  water, 
he  quietly  runs  his  bark  upon  the  gravely  beach  and  pitches  his 
tepee, — ever  keeping  up  his  vigil  for  the  avowed  enemy. 

Little  white  fishermen's  huts  nestle  at  the  feet  of  the  great 
bluffs,  as  if  conscious  of  their  protection,  while  the  old  palisades 
tower  above  them  in  massive  grandeur  to  a  dizzy  height.  Directly 
across  the  river  is  Yonkers,  the  city  of  mazy  and  wandering  avenues, 
and  eighteen  miles  below  is  plainly  seen  the  old  obelisk  in  Central 
Park.  The  famous  old  hills,  the  unassuming  bluffs — everything  ex- 
cept the  bleak,  desolate  sides  of  the  palisades  is.  alive  with  the  waving 
sea  of  dark-green  foliage. 

To  the  eye,  this  dense  canopy,  "these  forests  primeval,"  seem 
impenetrable.  As  night  comes  on,  they  fade  away,  and  we  see  nothing 
but  the  great  massive  forms  emerging  from  the  shadows.  We  imagine 
that  we  see  the  camp-fires  of  the  old  savage,  but  instead  we  see 
the  lights  glittering  from  the  mansion  of  some  money  king.  Nestled 
-among  tne  hills,  the  lights  dance  and  sparkle  like  gems  and  throw 
their  slender  rays  far  out  on  the  water.  The  old  river  is  a  thing  of 
1'fe — the  unnumbered  ripples  vying  with  one  another  in  catching  and 
reflecting  the  moonbeams. 

The  old-fashioned  cozy  farm-houses  send  forth  one  solitary  beam. 
A  lamp  burns  in  the  kitchen  window — it  is  early  morning.  The 
farmer  lads  ride  their  horses  far  out  into  the  river,  where  the 
water  is  clear  and  sparkling;  the  faithful  old  "plugs"  drink  their  fill— 
another  day  of  hard  work  awaits  them.  Away  in  the  background 
are  the  Adirondacks  of  New  York,  the  Berkshire  hills  of  Massachu- 
setts, the  Green  Mountains  of  Vermont,  and  the  White  Mountains  of 
New   Hampshire.     In   the   beautiful   valley  at   our   feet  are  the   little 

21S 


homes  of  a  liliputian  race.  The  grand  steamers  look  like  miniature 
toys.  The  Highlands  all  but  shut  the  waters  from  our  view,  but 
still  we  can  see  the  famous  waters  as  they  wind  in  beautiful  curves 
among  the  palisades,  carrying  on  their  clear,  smooth  surface  the 
craft  of  pleasure  and  industry — the  same  old  river  of  the  Aborigine — 
tii»-  American  Rhine. — C.  L.  A.  Dickens. 


MY    SISTER'S    PURSE. 

As  I  sat  in  my  office  one  winter  afternoon,  I  was  thinking  of 
the  jolly  time  I  had  had  with  my  friends  at  the  club  the  previous 
Saturday  night,  when  suddenly  the  telephone  bell  rang.  I  arose 
slowly,  and  went  to  answer  the  call.  "Well?"  I  said,  in  that  frosty 
but  inquiring  tone  in  which  one  always  answers  a  telephone  call.  "Is 
that  you,  Ralph?"  came  a  voice  over  the  wires,  which  I  recognized 
to  be  that  of  my  sister.  "Yes,"  I  replied,  "what  is  it?"  "Well,  I 
wish  that  you  would  find  that  sample  of  blue  dimity  in  my  pocket- 
book  marked  ten  cents  per  yard,  and  get  one-half  a  yard  of  it  at 
Mandel's."  "Which  is  marked  ten  cents  a  yard,"  I  asked,  "the  pocket- 
book  or  the  dimity?"  "You  remember,"  she  continued  without  noticing 
my  frivolous  remark,  "that  you  placed  my  pocket-book  in  your  over- 
coat last  Tuesday  night."  She  rang  the  bell  in  my  ear,  and  left 
the  telephone  without  giving  me  a  chance  to  say  that  I  did  not 
remember  any  such  thing.  I  went  to  my  overcoat  and  found  the 
purse  in  one  of  the  pockets. 

I  drawr  it  out.  It  is  so  well  filled  that  it  appears  to  me  very 
much  like  a  half  open  oyster  shell  yet  so  light  that  it  might  be 
thought  to  contain  a  large  sum  of  paper  currency.  The  purse,  a  fold- 
ing one,  is  about  three  by  four  and  a-half  inches  in  size,  and  is 
made  of  alligator  leather.  On  each  of  the  four  outside  corners  is 
a  fancy  trimming  of  German  silver,  while  on  one  side  is  a  small 
round  plate  of  the  same  material,  on  which  my  sisters  initials  are 
engraved. 

As  I  open  it,  I  almost  drop  to  the  floor  sister's  four  inches  square 
spider  web,  which  she  calls  her  handkerchief.  I  place  this  on  my 
desk,  and  continue  the  search.  As  I  hold  the  purse  before  me,  the 
left  half  is  composed  of  three  open  pockets  and  one  for  loose  change, 
while  the  right  side  contains  two  open  pockets.  I  decide  to  search  in 
systematic  order  from  left  to  right.  The  first  pocket  that  I  examine 
contains  some  samples  of  dress  goods.  There  is  a  small  sample  of 
green  silk,  on  which  is  pinned  a  slip  of  writing-paper,  which  bears 
the  mark,  $1.25  per  yard.  Next  I  find  a  sample  of  muslin,  8c;  then 
one  of  near-silk  at  20c  per  yard,  and  one  of  white  lace  marked  50c. 
I  replace  all  of  these  samples,  and  begin  my  search  through  the  second 
pocket.  Here  I  find  samples  of  baby  ribbon,  lc;  gingham,  13c: 
toweling,  24c;  and  two  of  canton  flannel  at  10c  and  12M*c  respectively, 

219 


while  away  down  at  the  bottom  of  the  pocket  are  two  cards,  one 
of  which  bears  the  name  of  Mr.  M.  J.  Carpenter  and  the  other  that 
of  Mr.  H.  C.  Corbin.  Now  I  begin  my  search  through  the  pockets  on 
the  left  side.  In  the  first  one  I  find  samples  of  cambric,  calico,  and 
gingham,  together  with  advertisements  clipped  from  the  newspapers, 
one  of  the  great  shoe-sale  at  Marshall  Field's  from  the  tenth  to  the 
thirtieth  of  January  and  the  special  sale  of  handkerchiefs  at  Carson, 
Pirie,  Scott  and  Company's. 

The  second  pocket  contains  notes  and  invitations  but  no  samples 
of  blue  dimity,  while  the  next  and  last  open  pocket  contains  only  some 
postage  stamps,  that  are  badly  stuck  together,  a  dozen  calling  cards, 
the  addresses  of  a  few  friends  living  in  the  suburbs,  and  a  tiny 
photograph  of  sister's  latest  chum.  My  last  resort  is  now  the  pocket. 
Upon  opening  it  I  find  only  two  small  black  pins,  a  nickle,  two  pennies, 
and  a  small  key. 

Just  at  this  moment  my  telephone  bell  rings  again,  and  when 
I  answer  it  my  sister  tells  me  that  she  has  just  found  the  sample  at 
home  instead  of  in  her  purse,  and  that  she  thinks  she  will  not  need 
any  of  that  dimity. — Ralph  P.  Mattingly. 


THE  GHOST  AT  VASSAR  COLLEGE. 

It  was  about  five  years  ago  that  I  paid  a  visit  to  my  aunt,  who 
was  then  professor  of  history  at  Vassar  College.  There  were  several 
girls  attending  the  college  from  my  town,  and  they  did  much  toward 
making  my  stay  a  pleasant  one.  On  the  second  night  after  my  arrival, 
a  "spread"  was  given  in  my  honor,  to  which  several  of  the  teachers 
were  invited  besides  the  girls  themselves.  Of  course,  the  "spread" 
was  a  great  success.  At  about  half-past  nine  my  aunt,  who  was 
one  of  the  company,  told  me  that  she  was  going  to  her  room,  in 
order  to  do  a  little  work  before  ten,  the  hour  at  which  the  lights 
were  turned  out.  It  so  happened  that  at  ten  all  of  the  teachers  had 
gone  to  their  rooms.  Of  course,  we  could  not  think  of  going  to  bed 
so  soon,  so  we  stuffed  a  towel  into  the  crack  under  the  door,  lighted 
a  candle,  and  began  to  tell  ghost-stories.  Then  I  became  a  little 
nervous,  for  I  knew  I  had  to  sleep  all  alone  that  night,  and  I  did 
not  feel  any  too  brave.  You  can  imagine  my  horror  when  a  girl  began 
to  tell  a  ghost-story  concerning  occurrences  which,  as  she  said,  had 
happened  in  room  17,  the  very  one  that  I  was  to  occupy  that  night. 
Therefore,  in  order  to  avoid  hearing  it,  I  put  my  fingers  to  my 
ears,  but  the  little  that  leaked  through  did  not  make  my  nerves  any 
steadier. 

About  half-past  ten  I  went  to  my  room.  It  was  a  large  chamber 
with  a  high  ceiling  and  three  windows.  There  was  but  one  door,  how- 
ever, near  which  stood  an  old  mahogany  bed.  After  convincing  myself 
that  the  closet  and  the  space  under  the  bed  were  both  unoccupied,  I 

220 


locked  the  door  and  went  to  bed.  but  I  did  not  immediately  go  to  sleep. 
Certainly  I  was  in  a  very  bad  mental  condition;  for  at  the  least 
sound  I  would  jump  and  hold  my  breath  in  order  to  hear  from  which 
direction  the  noise  came.  A  Welsh  rarebit,  pickle,  and  chocolate 
combination  is  not  the  most  conducive  to  sleep. 

It  was  but  a  few  minutes  after  I  went  to  bed  when  1  heard  the  big 
clock  down  the  hall  strike  twelve.  Then  I  tried  to  go  to  sleep  in 
earnest.  I  began  counting,  one,  two,  three,  four,  but  just  as  I  reached 
seventeen  I  stopped,  for  I  distinctly  heard  steps  in  the  hall  outside 
of  my  door,  and  a  few  seconds  afterward  I  heard  my  door-knob  turn 
round.  I  was  simply  paralyzed  with  fear.  I  thought  how  lucky  it 
was  that  I  had  locked  the  door;  then  I  wondered  if  even  that  would 
keep  out  the  ghost.  The  next  instant  I  heard  a  weird,  trembling  voice 
say,  "Bessie,  O  Bessie,  give  me  my  body — give  me  my  body.  Bessie, 
please  give  me  my  body."  Again  the  knob  was  turned.  Then  I  began 
to  shake.  What  could  it  be  that  wras  calling  my  name  and  asking 
for  its  body?  I  thought  of  many  things  to  do,  from  opening  the  door 
to  screaming,  but  I  did  neither  of  these.  I  simply  pulled  the  clothes 
firmly  over  my  head,  and  kept  very  still. 

The  next  morning  I  awoke  with  a  bad  headache,  and  thought  to 
myself,  "Oh,  that  was  only  a  dream,  but  it  certainly  did  seem  real 
last  night."  Finally,  I  told  my  aunt  of  my  experience,  and  she  laughed 
as  if  she  considered  it  a  fine  joke.  "I  thought  that  you  were  sleeping 
very  soundly,"  she  said;  "for  I  came  to  your  door  quite  late  last  night 
to  get  my  waist  that  I  left  there  yesterday,  but  your  door  was  locked." 
"But  how  do  you  account  for  that  ghost  that  asked  me  for  its  body?" 
I  asked.     "Oh!"  she  said,  "I  asked  for  my  bodice." — Elizabeth  Shotwell. 


"SIS." 

Imagine  a  young  lady  about  eighteen  years  of  age,  of  average  size, 
with  a  slender  but  not  angular  form,  with  a  neat,  fashionable,  but 
not  extravagant  dress,  with  a  luxuriant  growth  of  golden  hair  arranged 
in  pompadour  style,  and  you  have  the  general  appearance  of  "Sis.", 
Her  face,  somewhat  oval,  with  a  slightly  prominent  chin,  is  beautified 
by  Nature's  best  cosmetics,  a  clear  complexion,  while  her  nose  is 
one  of  that  exquisite  type  famous  in  Grecian  sculpture.  Her  languish- 
ing blue  eyes  are  bordered  with  long-,  light  lashes,  in  keeping  with 
her  golden  hair.  Her  teeth,  of  course,  are  like  pearls;  and  those 
lips — rosy  as  the  tint  on  a  red  astrakan  in  September — must  be 
delicious. 

The  outward  manners  of  "Sis"  (especially  in  public)  are  very  be- 
coming. She  is  modest  but  not  reticent,  talkative  but  not  silly.  On 
the  street  she  politely  recognizes  all  her  acquaintances,  without  regard 
for  "color,  race,  or  previous  condition  of  servitude."  Her  every 
movement  is  graceful,  while  her  light,  brisk  step  and  beaming  counte- 

221 


nance  betoken  a  buoyancy  of  spirits.  "Sis"  attends  the  high  school,  and 
is  naturally  a  favorite  with  both  sexes;  she  is  a  genial  companion  and 
a  ready  talker.  The  girls  seek  her  company,  and  walk  arm  in  arm 
with  her.  Some  of  the  boys  are  almost  envious,  for  though  they  may 
walk  and  talk  with  "Sis,"  they  must  adore  at  arm's  length.  "Sis" 
is  seldom  alone,  for  she  enjoys  talking  to  anyone  who  has  anything 
to  say;  the  halls  have  become  familiar  with  her  suppressed  laughter. 
She  excels  in  all  her  work,  though  she  says  that  she  wishes  Euclid 
had  died  when  in  the  midst  of  his  fourth  proposition. 

As  a  member  of  the  Methodist  church,  "Sis"  is  extremely  religious, 
and  attends  nearly  all  the  Sunday  and  mid-week  services.  At  the 
Epworth  League  meetings  her  testimony  is  always  expected,  while  each 
earnest  petition  of  several  prayers  is  distinctly  sanctioned  by  her 
"Amen."  In  a  revival  meeting  she  thinks  that  she  may  exert  some 
good  influence.  So,  drawing  her  chair  close  to  some  wayward  youth 
and  placing  her  hand  on  his  shoulder,  she  exhorts  him  to  enter  "the 
straight  and  narrow  way."  And  though  unable  to  see  the  way,  he 
imagines  that  Heaven  is  a  little  nearer  while  he  feels  the  pressure  of 
that  hand. 

Thus  far,  "Sis"  is  a  girl  with  whom  the  ordinary  freshman  might 
readily  fall  in  love;  but  I  advise  him  to  see  her  first  in  her  home:  here 
the  scene  changes.  "Sis"  is  often  peevish,  irritable,  and  ill-tempered; 
she  has  been  spoiled.  Because  the  cat  is  in  her  way,  she  kicks  it 
under  the  table;  on  using  some  slang  invective  against  the  dog,  the 
parrot  mocks  her,  and  she  hangs  him  outside  to  "cool  off,"  At  other 
times  she  is  extremely  silly  and  sentimental,  when  she  hugs  her 
father,  kisses  her  mother,  and  caresses  the  cat. 

But  we  must  hear  "Sis"  in  the  parlor  as  she  talks  with  her  dearest 
chum  "Lil."  "I  just  had  a  lovely  time  with  Harry  last  night!  He 
is  such  a  dear  boy;  he  just  thinks  as  I  do.  You  know  Will  and  T 
never  did  think  alike,  and  George  seldom  had  any  thoughts,"  thus 
she  runs  on.  "Sis"  studies  on  alternate  evenings,  and  on  other  nights 
she  entertains  her  gentlemen  friends.  "I  would  like  to  invite  Freddie 
Brown  some  evening,"  she  says.  "But  Monday  is  Harry's  night, 
Wednesday  is  Mr.  Smart's  night,  Friday  is  Mr.  Stewart's  night,  and 
on  Sunday  sister  desires  the  parlor  for  her  company;  but  I  will 
arrange  it  to  have  Freddie  some  night  soon." 

As  may  be  concluded,  "Sis"  has  different  aspirations  under  vary- 
ing circumstances.  In  school  she  has  ambitions  for  literary  honors; 
in  church  work  she  sometimes  has  a  hope  that  she  may  lose  her  life 
for  the  heathen  world.  But  taking  all  the  evidence  into  consideration, 
we  may  justly  conclude  that  she  will  be  very  apt  to  make  an  unreserved 
consignment  of  herself  to  the  first  man  who  may  make  a  fair  proposal. 
■ — John  Barnes. 


.      MY  ENCOUNTER  WITH  A  BURGLAR. 

A  burglar!     The  word,  sleepy  though  I  was,  caused  chills  to  run 

222 


down  my  back.  Instantly  there  flashed  through  my  mind  the  par- 
ticulars of  half  a  dozen  or  more  burglaries  which  had  recentlj 
place  in  our  neighborhood.  I  recalled  how  Mr.  S — ,  our  near  neigh- 
bor, was  severely  wounded  in  attempting  to  capture  a  burglar,  and 
how  Mrs.  W — ,  an  aged  widow  wealthy  by  repute,  had  been  tied  to  a 
bed-post  and  tortured  to  make  her  give  up  her  money.  Consequently, 
when  told  by  my  mother  that  a  burglar  was  attempting  to  secure 
entrance,  I  was  badly  frightened. 

By  chance  there  were  only  three  of  the  family  at  home:  my 
mother,  Norah  the  maid,  and  myself. 

In  agitated  whispers  mother  and  Norah  told  me  that  the  burglar  was 
working  at  the  kitchen  door.  So,  going  to  the  head  of  the  back  stairs, 
I  stood  and  listened.  Soon  I  heard  a  sound  which  indicated  that  a 
saw  was  being  used  on  the  door.  All  at  once  it  stopped.  Evidently 
the  burglar  was  alarmed.  Preserving  the  utmost  quiet,  I  still  listened. 
Yes,  he  was  attempting  to  saw  his  way  in,  for  there  was  the  noise 
again.     This  time  it  continued  a  little  longer.     Once  more  it  stopped. 

I  went  immediately  to  the  dresser  and  procured  the  revolver  kept 
there  for  such  an  emergency.  Coming  back,  as  I  was  passing  through 
the  hall,  I  met  mother  and  Norah,  the  former  carrying  a  lamp  and 
the  latter  armed  with  my  ball  bat.  Although  badly  frightened,  since 
I  was  the  only  male  member  of  the  family  present,  I  would  not  show 
my  terror,  so  I  kept  a  bold  front.  I  now  proceeded  to  marshal  my 
forces,  and  we  slowly  marched  down  the  front  stairway.  I  was  in 
front,  holding  the  revolver  at  arm's  length,  so  as  to  insure  the  speedy 
annihilation  of  the  burglar,  were  we  to  meet  him  unexpectedly.  Norah 
followed,  savagely  brandishing  the  ball-bat,  while  mother  followed, 
carrying  a  lamp.  At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  I  called  a  halt  and  went 
forward  to  reconnoitre.  After  listening  for  some  time,  I  was  sure 
that  the  burglar  was  still  at  his  work.  Slowly  "and  cautiously  we 
advanced  until  we  entered  the  dining-room.  Here  we  halted,  and  Norah 
nearly  went  into  hysterics  upon  hearing  the  supposed  burglar  at  his 
work.  To  add  to  our  misery,  mother,  being  nervous,  set  the  lamp  down 
too  hard,  and  jarred  it  out. 

Now  the  noise  became  louder.  Suddenly  there  was  a  crash  and 
the  sound  of  falling  glass.  Evidently  the  burglar  was  about  to  enter 
and  we  must  move  at  once  if  we  wished  to  frustrate  him.  Calling 
upon  Norah  to  follow,  I  quickly  walked  foward  and,  throwing  my 
weight  against  the  pantry  door  (a  swinging  one,  by  the  way),  I  hurst 
into  the  kitchen.  Norah,  following  closely  in  the  dark,  was  struck  by 
the  door  as  it  swung  back.  Greatly  terrified,  supposing  the  burglar  to 
be  upon  her,  she  cried  out,  "Och,  it's  kilt  entoirely  Oi  am,  lave  me  go, 
Mr.  Burglar,  lave  me  go!"  To  make  a  grand  finale,  nervous  as  I  was 
and  frightened  by  Norah's  cry,  I  pulled  the  trigger.  There  was  a  roar 
and  then  all  was  still.  I  stood  and  listened.  Then  I  stepped  in  some- 
thing wet.      Supposing   that   I   had   killed   the   burglar  and    was   now 

223 


standing  in  his  blood,  I  called  for  Norah  to  bring  a  light.     This  she 
did,  after  being  assured  that  the  burglar  was  undoubtedly  dead. 

Imagine  the  nervous  relaxation  that  took  place  when  I  found 
that  instead  of  standing  in  the  blood  of  the  burglar,  I  was  standing 
in  a  pool  of  milk.  Crouching  in  an  opposite  corner  of  the  kitchen  was  a 
little  kitten,  the  household  pet.  Around  its  neck  was  part  of  a  broken 
cream  pitcher.  Instantly  all  became  plain.  The  cat,  becoming  hungry 
during  the  early  hours  of  morning,  had  started  on  a  tour  of  investiga- 
tion. In  its  eagerness  to  procure  food,  it  had  thrust  its  head  into  the 
cream  pitcher  and  imbibed  all  the  cream  that  it  could.  Then,  not 
being  able  to  get  its  head  out,  it  had  madly  careered  around  the  floor 
until  the  pitcher  was  broken  by  striking  a  table  leg.  This  was  the 
crash  of  falling  glass  which  we  heard.  The  sawing  was  the  sound  pro- 
duced by  the  pitcher  dragging  on  the  floor.  The  burglar,  having  thus 
been  successfully  routed,  we  once  more  went  to  bed  and  slept  until 
morning,  troubled  by  dreams  in  which  gigantic  cats  figured  as  burg- 
lars.—Walter  A.  Stults. 

WATCHING  FOR  SANTA  CLAUS. 

While  spending  the  holidays  at  the  home  of  a  friend,  I  happened 
to  go  to  the  library  on  Christmas  Eve  to  get  a  package  that  she  had  left 
there  in  the  afternoon.  Slipping  softly  down  the  hall  to  the  library 
door,  I  pushed  the  portiere  aside  to  enter.  What  a  picture  presented 
itself  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  room!  Even  now  I  can  see  it, — the 
firelight  making  the  rich  furnishings  more  inviting  than  ever,  the 
stockings  hanging  from  the  mantel,  the  two  little  daughters  of  my 
hostess  waiting  for  Santa  Claus. 

The  gas  has  not  been  lighted,  and  the  curtains  are  drawn;  so  that 
the  fire  in  the  grate  sends  out  a  warm  glow,  now  making  the  corners 
bright,  now  leaving  them  dark.  The  red  and  yellow  flame  chases  the 
shadows  in  and  out  as  they  play  hide-and-seek  among  the  chairs.  It 
darts  along  from  one  piece  of  wood  to  another,  and  disappears  as  if 
merely  playing  a  joke,  after  all.  The  tiling  about  the  grate  reflects 
its  olive  disks  in  response  to  an  advance  on  the  part  of  the  flame; 
while  through  the  mirror  above  fantastic  shapes  beckon  and  nod  to 
their  partners  in  a  merry  dance  on  the  ceiling.  But  all  this  jollity  is 
unseen  save  by  myself  and  the  doll  on  the  mantel,  who  smiles  down 
on  the  little  girls  below. 

At  the  left  of  the  fireplace,  half  hidden  in  a  great  Morris  chair, 
the  older  one  leans  back  against  the  soft  velvet,  and  a  glimpse  of  her 
face  through  the  long  brown  curls  shows  no  look  of  doubt  nor  of  impa- 
tience; she  is  waiting  for  Santa,  and  he  will  come.  In  fancy  she  is 
far  away,  whither  she  has  been  charmed  by  the  fairies  that  beckon 
from  the  dancing  flames;  and  she  sees  those  things  that  only  a  child 
can  see  as  she  listens  for  the  sound  of  bells  and  the  patter  of  reindeer 
hoofs.      Close  beside   her   chair  and   almost   in  front  of   her,   cuddles 

224 


another  little  white-robed  lassie,  whose  curls  cluster  and  fall  lovingly 
over  the  lace  and  ruffles  of  the  little  white  night-dress.  The  low  has- 
sock lifts  her  just  high  enough  for  her  head  to  be  silhouetted  against 
the  flame  as  it  dashes  up  the  black  chimney;  and  though  her  back  is 
toward  me,  I  fancy  I  can  see  her  eyes  as  they  follow  the  daring  flame 
which  goes  to  meet  and  to  greet  Santa.  Neither  child  speaks,  neither 
moves;  each  is  lost  in  her  own  dreams. 

The  stockings  hanging  limply  yet  expectantly  from  the  mantel 
tell  of  intent  to  deceive,  for  they  are  both  wide  and  deep;  and  the  little 
bedtime  candle  by  the  fireplace  winks  at  them  mischievously.  Not  a 
sound  is  heard  save  the  crackling  of  the  wood  and  the  ticking  of  the 
clock  on  the  mantel;  so,  lest  I  break  the  spell  which  rests  upon  the  little 
watchers,  listening  for  bells  that  will  jingle  only  in  the  Land  of  Nod, 
I  steal  away  as  softly  as  I  have  come. — Lucretia  Garfield  Kays. 


"WHAT  DOES  IT  MEAN  TO  BE  GOOD?" 

Martha  was  certainly  a  very  bad  child.  No  one  of  the  inmates  of 
tenement  row  No.  6  would  have  denied  it.  Indeed,  they  lost  no  oppor- 
tunity to  acquaint  each  other  with  the  fact.  Old  Anthony,  who  was 
very  old  indeed,  and  who  kept  a  sort  of  grandfatherly  eye  on  all  of  the 
tenement  "brats",  only  shook  his  head  solemnly  at  the  mention  of 
Martha's  name.  As  for  Martha's  mother,  if  she  wasn't  scrubbing 
somewhere,  or  wasn't  in  a  heavy  stupor,  a  commoner  occurrence,  and  if 
she  chose  to  answer  at  all,  she  would  have  told  you  with  no  little  pride 
that  Martha  was  a  "bad  un,  a  very  bad  un." 

Now  simply  because  I  have  said  that  Martha  was  commonly 
acknowledged  a  bad  child,  it  must  not  for  a  moment  be  supposed  that 
the  children  who  swarmed  the  floors,  the  stairs,  and  the  alley,  so  thickly 
that  their  mothers  were  never  sure  which  were  their  own, — it  must  not 
be  supposed  that  these  children  were  good.  No,  Bridget  Maloney  said 
that  they  were  all  "little  divils,"  and  the  association  lady  who  visited 
Tenement  No.  6  every  two  months  would  have  voiced  the  same  senti- 
ment in  her  own  cultured  way.  So  it  was  not  because  of  contrast  with 
goodness  that  Martha  appeared  bad,  but  because,  in  spite  of  the  badness 
of  the  others,  she  contrived  to  be  still  worse. 

Martha  knew  that  she  was  bad,  but  I  do  not  know  how  she  could 
have  helped  that,  since  she  had  heard  it  always,  and  from  everyone. 
She  gloried  in  her  badness;  gloried  in  the  fact  that,  as  a  baby,  she 
had  cried  louder  and  more  than  any  baby  born  before  or  since  in  the 
tenement;  gloried  that  she  had  eluded  and  received  more  beatings  than 
any  six  of  her  companions;  gloried  that  she  had  caused  at  least  five 
grocery  horses  to  take  sudden  and  wild  flight,  and  that  she  was  hated 
cordially  by  their  owners.  She  knew  that  she  could  lie  faster  and 
more  cunningly,  and  could  strike  harder  than  any  boy  of  her  age  in 
the  row,  and  she  also  knew  that  her  vocabulary  of  "swear  words"  was 

225 


far  more  extensive  than  any  they  could  hoast,  and  again  she  gloried. 

But,  strange  to  say,  Martha  was  not  satisfied;  and  yet  it  was  not 
so  very  strange,  after  all,  for  Napoleon,  you  know,  sighed  for  more 
worlds  to  conquer,  and  so  Martha  longed  for  new  ways  in  which  to  be 
bad.  The  old  ways  were  so  old  and  commonplace,  and  the  tenement 
was  so  used  to  them,  she  feared  that  in  time  it  might  not  think  them 
so  remarkably  bad  after  all.  She  became  quite  disconsolate  while 
brooding  over  this  thought,  which  she  did  so  much  of  the  time  that 
for  hours  she  entirely  forgot  to  be  bad  in  the  ways  she  knew. 

One  day  while  Martha  was  still  distressed  over  this  problem,  it 
was  noised  throughout  the  tenement  that  the  association  visitor  would 
probably  be  there  in  the  afternoon,  and  the  children,  for  the  most  part, 
were  glad,  for  they  thought  the  manners  and  clothes  of  the  lady 
extremely  interesting.  A  few  of  their  mothers  shoved  some  of  the 
things  on  the  floor  under  the  bed,  but  the  most  of  them  kept  on  with 
what  they  were  doing  or  were  not  doing  in  their  accustomed  way. 

Martha,  in  some  way,  failed  to  note  the  approach  of  the  association 
lady,  but  she  stood  at  the  head  of  the  line  of  curious  alleyites,  watch- 
ing her  descent.  Suddenly,  an  exultant  cry  went  down  the  row,  "There's 
two  of  'em,  two  of  'em!"  There  certainly  were,  and  as  they  came 
close  Martha  saw  the  "new  un,"  a  slender  girl,  plainly  dressed,  with  a 
sweet,  timid  face.  She  looked  straight  at  Martha  as  she  passed,  and 
suddenly  bent  down,  and  said  in  the  softest  voice,  "Be  good,  little  girl, 
be  good,"  and  was  gone. 

From  that  moment  the  aim  of  Martha's  life  was  changed.  In  all 
of  her  days  she  could  not  remember  ever  before  having  any  one  tell 
her  to  be  good,  and  she  was  fascinated  by  the  strange  new  idea.  "What 
does  it  mean  to  be  good?"  This  was  the  question  which  came  con- 
tinually from  her  lips.  She  went  first  to  old  Anthony,  but  it  was  one 
of  his  feeble  days,  and  he  only  smiled  happily,  and  nodded  his  head. 
She  asked  her  mother,  who  looked  at  her  with  scared  eyes,  and  then 
with  an  oath  told  her  never  to  ask  that  question  again.  Martha  saw 
that  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  ask  each  inmate  of  the  row  till  she 
obtained  the  desired  information.  She  felt  that  life  was  now  worth 
living.  It  was  much  more  interesting  to  discover  how  to  be  something 
of  which  she  had  never  heard  than  to  worry  over  new  ways  in  which 
to  be  bad.  She  was  no  wiser,  however,  after  questioning  the  various 
mothers  of  the  tenement.  The  common  answer  was,  "You'll  never 
know,"  "You'll  die  before  you  find  out,"  with  a  door  shut  in  the  "bad 
brat's"  face.  She  at  last  humiliated  herself  by  asking  the  other  chil- 
dren, and  they,  rejoicing  at  the  opportunity  of  appearing  greater  than 
Martha,  replied  that  they  knew  well  what  it  meant  to  be  good,  they 
had  always  known,  but  did  she  suppose  they  would  tell  her?  Martha, 
undeceived,  and  with  contempt  in  her  eyes,  turned  away,  and  then 
she  made  a  decision.  There  was  no  one  in  the  alley  who  could  tell  her 
what  she  wished  to  know,  and  she  would  go  away  from  the  alley  and 

22ti 


find  out,  and  some  day  come  back  and  tell  them  all.  How  fine  they 
would  think  her  then,  and  how  grand  it  would  be!  There  were  two 
places  she  would  find,  one  was  a  college  (she  had  beard  Bridget 
Maloney  tell  Mrs.  Nordska  that  the  "dacent  young  lady"  was  from  the 
"college"),  and  the  other  was  a  church;  for  little  Jake,  softer-hearted 
than  the  others,  had  told  her  that  in  the  city  there  was  a  very  large 
stone  building  called  a  church,  which  a  "cop"  had  once  told  him  was 
for  good  people.  The  next  morning  she  slipped  away.  As  soon  as  she 
reached  the  heart  of  the  city  she  began  her  inquiries  for  the  church. 
To  the  question,  "What  church?"  she  could  answer  only,  "A  big  stone 
one;"  at  which  every  one  laughed  and  hurried  on.  Well,  she  would  ask 
the  next  time  for  the  college,  she  thought,  as  she  waited  for  a  street- 
car to  pass.  Looking  at  the  other  side  of  the  street,  she  saw  something 
which  made  her  give  a  scream  of  delight.  It  was  the  girl,  the  "dacent 
young  lady,'"  standing  on  the  corner.  Martha  shouted  and  gave  a 
glad  little  leap,  and  then, — nothing  strange  happened,  only  a  careless 
little  girl,  who  had  not  seen  a  car  coming  from  the  direction  in  which 
one  had  just  gone,  was  knocked  down  and  thrown  from  the  track. 

When  Martha  again  opened  her  eyes,  she  saw  pure  white  walls 
around  her,  a  pure  white  face  bending  over  her,  and  she  herself  lying 
in  the  whitest  of  white  beds.  With  a  triumphant  smile  not  unlike  the 
ones  alleyites  had  so  often  seen,  she  murmured,  "Is  this  what  it  is  to 
be  good?"  Then  she  closed  her  eyes,  and  then,  better  than  the  philoso- 
phers, better  than  the  moralists  of  all  ages,  Martha  knew  what  it  means 
to  be  good. — Mary  Lyon. 


A  HIGHWAYMAN. 

Being  the  oldest  child,  upon  the  death  of  my  father  considerable 
business  devolved  upon  me,  especially  as  my  father  had  no  male  rela- 
tives living  near.  It  is  true  that  I  had  an  uncle  out  West  somewhere, 
but  we  had  not  heard  from  him  for  several  years.  My  father  also  had 
a  sister  living  at  Wedron,  a  town  twenty  miles  from  my  home. 

Among  other  things,  I  had  to  attend  to  some  loans  that  my  father 
had  negotiated  for  certain  men  in  the  East.  It  was  therefore  neces- 
sary for  me  to  go  to  Ottawa,  the  nearest  city,  in  order  to  meet  one  of 
these  men  and  get  about  $20,000.  I  went  on  Saturday.  When  I  had 
finished  my  business,  all  of  the  passenger  trains  had  gone.  Only  a 
slow  freight  train  was  left.  Hastily  putting  the  money,  which  was  in 
bills,  into  my  valise,  I  ran  to  the  station  and  reached  the  rear  end 
of  the  caboose  just  as  the  train  started.  Immediately  behind  me  a  man 
swung  himself  upon  the  platform.  At  first  I  took  little  notice  of  him, 
but  afterwards  I  was  attracted  by  the  close  scrutiny  which  he  gave 
me. 

He  offered  the  conductor  money  for  his  fare,  as  he  evidently  did 
not  have  time  to  purchase  a  ticket.     When  the  conductor  asked  him 


where  he  was  going  he  replied,  "Oh,  to  Wedron,  I  guess."  The  close 
scrutiny  of  the  stranger  made  me  nervous.  I  thought  of  the  hasty 
manner  with  which  I  had  put  the  money  into  my  valise,  near  the 
unshaded  window  of  the  bank.  The  thought  came  to  me  that  perhaps 
this  man  had  seen  me  from  the  street  as  I  started  with  the  money 
and  that  he  had  followed  me  with  evil  designs.  The  fact  that  he  had 
no  ticket  and  that  he  seemed  undecided  as  to  where  he  was  going 
strengthened  this  belief.  The  more  I  thought  about  it  the  more  con- 
vinced I  became.  Dalton  was  only  a  cross-roads,  and  as  it  was  very 
dark,  while  the  conductor  was  ahead  attending  to  the  switching,  this 
man  would  relieve  me  of  the  money.  I  resolved  that  if  the  conductor 
left  the  car  I  would  go  with  him.  But  when  we  reached  Dalton  the 
conductor  was  writing  his  report,  and  therefore  sent  the  brakeman 
ahead  to  care  for  the  cars.  I  felt  relieved.  The  next  station  was 
Wedron.  I  would  soon  be  rid  of  this  fellow.  But  the  man  remained 
on  the  car.  The  conductor  said,  "I  thought  that  you  intended  to  get 
off  at  Wedron."  "No,  I  think  that  I  shall  go  on  to  Sheridan,"  was  the 
reply.  I  started.  That  was  my  destination.  I  lived  a  mile  and  a  half 
from  the  station.  The  agent  would  be  gone,  everybody  would  be  in 
bed,  and  I  would  be  at  the  mercy  of  this  man.  What  was  I  to  do?  I 
was  unarmed,  and  he  had  twice  my  strength.  A  cold  sweat  stood  on 
my  brow.  I  gripped  the  handle  of  the  valise  with  such  force  that  my 
hand  was  bruised.  I  thought  of  many  possible  and  impossible  means 
of  escape.  At  last  an  idea  occurred  to  me.  Just  before  reaching  Sheri- 
dan I  went  out  on  the  platform,  and  as  the  train  began  to  slow  up  I 
jumped.  Near  by  was  a  cornfield  into  which  I  ran  at  full  speed,  not 
towards  home,  however.  I  then  made  a  wide  detour  and  reached  home 
in  the  rear. 

Cautiously  approaching  the  house,  I  was  surprised  to  see  a  light 
in  the  window.  As  I  stepped  upon  the  porch  I  could  look  into  the 
window  of  the  library.  I  stopped  in  amazement.  Sitting  in  an  arm- 
chair before  the  fireplace  was  my  companion  on  the  train.  I  was  about 
to  step  back,  but  my  mother  had  heard  me  and  immediately  opened 
the  door.  "What  made  you  so  late,  John?"  she  said.  "Your  uncle  from 
the  West  has  been  here  for  over  half  an  hour.  You  must  have  been  on 
the  same  train  that  he  was."  Everything  was  now  clear  to  me.  I 
understood  why  he  had  scrutinized  me  so  thoroughly.  I  also  reasoned 
that  he  was  in  doubt  whether  to  go  first  to  my  aunt's  at  Wedron  or  to 
come  to  Sheridan. 

The  next  morning  my  highwayman  went  with  me  while  I  delivered 
the  money. — O.  O.  Townsend. 


AN    EASTER    BROWNIE    DUDE. 

He  is  not  tall  and  slender  as  one  would  naturally  imagine.    On  the 
contrary,  he  is  rather  short  and  very  portly.     To  be  more  exact,  he  is 

228 


just  three  and  five-sixteenths  inches  tall  in  his  hoots;  while  his  waist- 
measure  exceeds  his  height  hy  three-eighths  of  an  inch.  This  extraor- 
dinary corpulence  is  due  to  the  fact  that  the  body  is  made  of  an  egg- 
shell, the  contents  of  which  were  removed  through  a  hole  in  the  small 
end.  The  head  is  made  of  batting  tightly  and  smoothly  covered  with  a 
bit  of  fine  handkerchief  linen;  while  the  arms  and  legs  are  pieces  of 
heavy  cardboard  cut  out  in  the  proper  shape  and  pasted  to  the  body 
at  the  shoulders  and  hips,  respectively.  By  a  free  use  of  water-color 
paints,  hair,  eyes,  nose,  mouth,  clothing,  etc.,  have  been  produced. 

In  general  appearance  Brownie  is  what  is  called  in  modern  par- 
lance a  "swell.'*  His  flashy  dress  and  flippant  bearing  are  painfully 
suggestive  of  the  fop.  The  one  somber  thing  about  him  is  his  black 
coat,  which  is  of  the  style  called  "cut-away."  It  is  entirely  unbuttoned, 
and  rolls  gracefully  back  in  front,  revealing  the  gaudy  green  vest 
beneath,  from  the  lower  left-hand  pocket  of  which  hangs  a  large  watch- 
fob.  The  immaculate  shirt-front  is  studded  with  two  huge  emeralds, 
while  the  high  paper  collar  is  set  off  by  a  large  red  bow-tie.  Quite 
in  harmony  with  the  other  articles  of  dress  are  the  bright  yellow 
trousers,  which,  with  the  black  shoes  and  a  tall  silk  hat,  complete  the 
costume.  The  hat  sits  well  back  on  the  head,  and  is  tilted  slightly  to 
the  left,  thus  revealing  a  light  growth  of  jet-black  hair  parted  in  the 
middle  and  brushed  smoothly  back  on  each  side.  A  low  forehead,  large 
eyes,  heavy,  arched  brows,  a  flat  nose,  a  wide,  grinning  mouth, — all 
these,  together  with  a  florid  complexion,  go  to  make  up  a  countenance 
which,  although  far  from  handsome,  is  not  altogether  unpleasing; 
while  a  large  monocle  adds  much  to  the  general  dudish  appearance. 
The  arms  are  both  bent  at  the  elbows  and  extend  forward  in  a  manner 
that  reminds  one  of  a  Jewish  clothier  setting  forth  the  merits  of  his 
merchandise.  This  e/fect  is  somewhat  relieved,  however,  by  the  pres- 
ence of  a  little  black  cane,  which  is  held  by  the  middle  in  the  left 
hand. 

Such  was  the  appearance  of  Brownie  some  four  years  ago.  To-day, 
however,  his  condition  is  greatly  changed.  By  some  means  the  head 
and  body  became  separated  from  each  other,  and  at  the  same  time  the 
body  was  crushed  almost  beyond  recognition.  Since  that  time  Brownie 
has  had  much  the  same  experience  as  that  of  a  hermit  crab,  seeking 
from  time  to  time  a  new  place  of  retreat  in  which  he  may  hide  his 
trunkless  neck.  At  the  present  time  he  is  peering  with  a  look  of  sur- 
prise from  the  mouth  of  a  little  blue  ink-well,  the  lid  of  which  is  thrown 
carefully  back  out  of  the  way.  Although  his  hat  is  somewhat  shabby 
now,  and  though  the  hair  is  tinged  with  gray,  otherwise  there  seems 
to  be  very  little  change  in  the  surviving  portions  of  the  unfortunate 
Brownie. — Faye  A.  Moon. 

MY  EXPERIENCE  WITH  INDIANS. 
Several  years  ago,  after  a  long  illness,  I  was  sent  West  to  recuperate. 

229 


I  spent  the  summer  in  southeastern  Montana  on  a  large  farm 
but  a  few  miles  east  of  the  Crow  Indian  Reservation  and  near  Little 
Big  Horn  River,  where  General  Custer  fought  the  Sioux.     Hence  the 

region  abounds  in   interesting  stories,  and  Mr.  T ,  my  host,  took 

pleasure  in  acquainting  me  with  all  the  Indian  tales  at  his  command. 

At  the  beginning  of  my  visit  there  had  been  some  trouble  at  the 
Reservation,  and  the  neighboring  farmers  had  become  somewhat 
uneasy,  but  the  disturbance  had  soon  quieted  down,  and  was  forgotten. 
The  Fourth  of  July  was  approaching,  and  the  people  were  making 
preparations  to  celebrate  in  true  Western  fashion.     There  was  to  be  a 

big  celebration  at  the  neighboring  town,  twenty  miles  away.    Mr.  T 

and  family  decided  to  attend,  and  urged  me  to  accompany  them,  but 
not  feeling  sufficiently  strong  to  endure  the  long  ride  and  the  tiresome 
day,  I  refused. 

At  eight  o'clock  on  the  morning  of  the  Fourth  I  was  left  alone. 
Feeling  a  trifle  lonesome,  I  decided  to  walk  to  an  old  log  fort  about 
half  a  mile  distant.  This  building  had  been  used  in  former  years  by 
the  "whites"  as  a  place  of  refuge  against  the  attacks  of  the  "red- 
skins." As  the  day  was  oppressively  hot,  I  sought  the  shady  side  of  the 
fort  and  sat  down  to  rest.  I  was  thinking  of  the  interesting  race  that 
had  inhabited  this  region  but  a  few  years  previous,  and  was  musing 
over  all  the  stories  I  had  heard,  meanwhile  adding  many  imaginary 
ones.  While  in  this  train  of  thought,  I  saw  two  horsemen  riding  hur- 
riedly down  the  road.  They  were  talking  excitedly,  and  I  thought  I 
saw  them  glance  back  in  the  direction  of  the  Reservation.  This  alarmed 
me,  and  I  began  to  realize  that  I  was  at  least  three  miles  from  the 
nearest  neighbors,  and  that  they  had  probably  gone  to  the  celebration. 
I  sprang  to  my  feet  and  hurried  homeward.  Once  inside  of  the  house 
I  felt  calmer,  and  as  it  was  past  noon,  I  visited  the  pantry,  where  my 
lunch  had  been  left.  I  had  been  instructed  to  make  my  coffee  over  the 
alcohol  stove.  It  was  empty,  but  after  a  short  search  I  found  a  large 
bottle  of  alcohol,  filled  the  stove,  and  prepared  my  coffee.  When  my 
lunch  was  finished  I  wandered  into  the  sitting-room,  picked  up  a  vol- 
ume of  "Boots  and  Saddles,"  and  began  to  read.  The  book  was  interest- 
ing, and  I  read  on  and  on,  forgetting  entirely  my  fright  of  the  morn- 
ing. But  what  was  that  noise!  It  came  from  the  direction  of  the 
kitchen,  and  sounded  like  a  door  being  gently  opened.  I  listened 
intently.  Yes,  there  was  certainly  some  one  entering  the  house,  for  I 
heard  a  murmuring  conversation.  Soon  muffled  footsteps  were  cross- 
ing the  floor  in  the  direction  of  the  pantry.  I  thought  of  the  large 
bottle  full  of  alcohol  that  I  had  failed  to  return  to  its  proper  place. 
What  if  they  should  discover  it  and  drink  it!  I  remembered  stories  of 
the  effect  that  "fire-water"  has  on  Indians,  and  shuddered.  Immediately 
the  noise  of  clattering  dishes,  mingled  with  satisfied  grunts,  came  from 
the  direction  of  the  pantry.  The  confusion  of  sounds  increased  until 
it  became  deafening.     Soon  the  intruders  had  finished  their  repast,  for 

230 


I  could  again  hear  them  walking  about  the  kitchen.  I  tried  to  move 
in  order  to  seek  a  hiding-place,  but  tear  had  paralyzed  me,  and  1  was 
compelled  to  remain  in  the  chair.  I  felt  that  my  time  had  nearly 
come.  Yes.  a  satiated  brave  had  his  hand  on  the  sitting-room  door- 
knob: I  watched  it  slowly  tinning.  The  door  opened  a  wee  bit,  and  in 
the  crack  I  saw  the  bright  eye  of  a  painted  Indian  peering  at  me.  Im- 
mediately he  gave  a  terrific  whoop,  flung  the  door  wide  open,  and 
rushed  into  the  room  followed  by  five  staggering  Indians  in  full  war 
dress.  They  formed  themselves  into  a  circle  around  me,  and  danced  the 
war  dance,  meanwhile  uttering  hideous  yells.  Then  the  leader,  his 
cruel  eyes  glittering  with  a  satanical  light,  advanced  toward  me,  seized 
me  by  the  hair,  slowly  raised  his  tomahawk — I  made  a  last  tremendous 
effort  to  move,  and  awoke,  letting  my  book  fall  to  the  floor. — Margaret 
L.  Seager. 

ANOTHER  MAN. 

In  the  latter  part  of  the  summer  of  1897,  my  brother  Frank  and 
a  neighbor's  boy,  "Buch,"  with  six  men,  left  Evanston  for  Klondike. 
They  took  with  them  a  steam  sledge,  which  was  as  large  as  a  locomo- 
tive, expecting  to  travel  up  and  down  the  frozen  rivers  of  that  country. 
Landing  at  the  mouth  of  the  Copper  River,  they  put  their  machine 
together,  but  to  their  great  disappointment  it  would  not  move.  They 
left  it  there  on  the  beach  and  started  inland  afoot.  During  this  over- 
land trip  one  man  was  expelled  from  the  company  for  foul  play,  and 
the  remaining  six  broke  up  into  two  parties  of  four  and  two,  respec- 
tively. Since  each  party  then  took  a  different  trail,  neither  party  saw 
the  other  again. 

Frank  and  "Buch"  trekked  to  Dawson  City,  where  each  found 
employment,  the  former  as  a  printer,  the  latter  as  a  wood-cutter.  Soon 
conditions  changed,  and  Frank,  leaving  "Buch"  at  his  wood-pile,  left 
for  Cape  Nome,  where  he,  with  several  other  men,  founded  "The  Nome 
Daily  News."  Before  long  a  good  business  had  been  worked  up,  and 
Frank  seized  an  opportunity  to  come  home  on  a  visit.  After  spending 
several  years  in  the  "land  of  the  midnight  sun,"  of  course,  many  people 
supposed  that  he  was  literally  sprinkled  with  gold-dust. 

Early  one  morning  during  his  visit,  the  sleep  of  our  family  was 
disturbed  by  a  cry,  "A  man's  in  the  house!"  I  recognized  Frank's 
voice,  for  it  was  my  misfortune  to  occupy  a  room  adjoining  his,  from 
which  came  that  horrible  cry.  Just  about  that  time  Evanston  was 
being  visited  by  bold  burglars,  who,  in  their  nocturnal  expeditions,  had 
carried  away  many  thousand  dollars'  worth  of  valuables  from  various 
places. 

Of  course,  such  cries  of  distress  immediately  awakened  all  of  us, 
from  the  baby  to  the  aged  grandfather.  Again  came  that  cry.  What 
under  the  sun,  moon,  and  stars  could  it  mean?  Could  it  be  that  burglars 
really  were  in  our  house,  and  that  they  actually  were  after  his  money? 

231 


Under  ordinary  circumstances  I  would  have  called  out  in  order  to  learn 
the  cause  of  the  disturbance,  but  now, — I  no  more  could  have  talked 
than  I  could  have  walked. 

Again  came  that  cry,  "A  man's  in  the  house!"  this  time  the  word 
"man"  being  strongly  emphasized.  What  was  to  be  done?  Were  we 
to  leave  our  brother  to  the  mercy  of  the  intruder?  Alas,  a  pistol  shot! 
No  doubt  the  poor  boy  was  lying  with  an  ugly  bullet  hole  in  him!  By 
this  time  father,  mother,  and  my  other  brother,  Fred,  had  armed  them- 
selves and  could  have  been  heard  a  block  away  ascending  the  stairs  to 
his  room,  each  with  a  shotgun,  a  rope,  or  a  flat-iron.  The  door  was  fas- 
tened from  within.  He  was  locked  in  with  the  murderer!  To  add  to 
the  excitement,  his  window  went  down  with  a  crash.  Was  the  villain 
escaping?  In  a  moment  the  door  was  forced  in  with  a  bang  and  dis- 
closed,— horrors!  There  lay  Frank  on  the  sofa,  laughing,  enjoying  his 
pipe,  thus  celebrating  the  early  hours  of  his  twenty-first  birthday.  He 
had  caused  all  this  commotion  as  a  joke,  for  since  he  was  twenty-one 
years  of  age,  there  truly  was  another  man  in  the  house. — John  A.  Kap- 
pelman. 


A    STRANGE    EXPERIENCE. 

It  was  a  sultry  summer  afternoon.  I  had  been  traveling  for 
several  hours,  and  still  had  a  long,  tiresome  ride  before  me.  Weary 
of  the  dust,  smoke,  and  continual  noise,  I  read  the  newspaper  very 
thoroughly,  and  then  tried  to  amuse  myself  by  observing  the  passen- 
gers. But  all  seemed  dull  and  commonplace  until  I  noticed  a  distin- 
guished-looking gentleman,  who  had  just  entered  the  car.  He  was  the 
type  of  man  which  attracts  a  green  country  boy  like  myself.  His 
great  stature  and  broad  shoulders  gave  him  a  superb  physique.  His 
hair  was  iron  grey,  and  his  face,  though  not  wrinkled,  was  very  pale. 
And  the  pallor  was  enhanced  by  a  pair  of  black,  glowing  eyes  which 
seemed  to  shed  a  light  over  the  whole  car.  He  walked  down  the  aisle, 
and,  no  vacant  seat  being  near,  he  consented  to  share  mine. 

I  was  burning  with  curiosity  to  know  something  of  his  history,  and 
after  several  "weather  remarks"  inquired  his  vocation.  Fixing  those 
black,  piercing  eyes  upon  me,  he  gazed  so  steadily  that  I  felt  guilty 
of  some  unknown  crime.  However,  he  told  me  that  he  had  been  a 
professor  in  Physics  in  one  of  the  eastern  colleges,  but  had  resigned 
his  position  in  order  to  devote  all  his  time  to  experiments.  He  said 
that  he  loved  science,  that  it  had  been  to  him  as  a  mother  or  father. 
"Surely  you  have  heard  of  Sir  Isaac  Newton?  Well,  you  now  have 
the  honor  of  his  acquaintance."  After  these  remarks  he  buttoned  his 
coat,  took  his  grip,  and  said  that  he  was  going  to  the  front  to 
engineer. 

There  certainly  was  a  mystery  about  this  strange  man.  What 
could  it  mean?    Was  he  some  poor  soul  who  had  become  insane  from 

232 


overwork?  At  Last  my  curiosity  got  the  better  of  me.  and  I  determined 
to  ascertain  what  kind  of  a  reception  the  engineer  had  given  him. 
Keeping  out  of  sight  of  the  train  men — for  I  did  not  wish  to  give  them 
any  trouble — I  sneaked  through  to  the  engine,  and  climbed  into  the 
cab.  There  a  strange  sight  met  my  eyes.  The  engineer  lay  senseless 
on  the  floor.  Above  him  stood  the  giant  form  of  the  mysterious  gen- 
tleman, his  eyes  glowing  like  coals  of  fire,  and  his  breath  coming 
faster  and  faster.  With  one  hand  he  held  the  throttle,  and  with  the 
other  he  pointed  a  pistol  at  the  poor,  cowering  fireman.  The  speed 
of  the  engine  kept  increasing.  We  seemed  to  be  flying  through  the 
air.  At  this  rate  we  would  soon  reach  the  terminal  point,  and  what 
would  happen  then?  This  great  seething  animal  would  burst  straight 
into  the  station,  and  at  the  sacrifice  of  how  many  lives!  Should  I  go 
to  warn  the  passengers  of  their  danger?  or  should  I  attempt  to  cope 
with  this  maniac  and  meet  the  fate  of  the  engineer?  I  hear  a  great 
creaking  noise,  and  feel  myself  suddenly  shaken  back  and  forth.  Is 
this  already  the  beginning  of  the  wreck?  I  turn  and  see  at  my  side, 
not  the  crazy  engineer  but  the  burly  figure  of  the  conductor,  who  is 
saying,  "Wake  up,  here,  Mister.  This  is  the  place  where  you  get  off." 
— Katherine  V.  Jenkins. 


A    TALE    AT    MIDNIGHT. 

i 

I  heard  footsteps,  the  door  opened  softly,  and  I  found  myself 
in  the  presence  of  "Old  Nocomis"  himself,  Nocomis,  the  chief  of  the 
Ojibway  tribe.  The  long  white  locks  of  hair  were  brushed  proudly 
back  from  his  forehead,  while  his  broad  heavy  shoulders  were  thrown 
squarely  back.  As  he  noticed  that  I  was  a  mere  lad,  a  smile  quickly 
stole  over  his  face,  and  extending  his  hand  he  led  me  without  a  word 
to  his  fire-place.  For  some  time  he  sat  there  with  his  massive  shoul- 
ders bent  slightly  forward,  gazing  intently  into  the  fire,  as  the  crack- 
ling embers  snapped  out  upon  the  hard  oak  floor. 

Growing  restless  and  wondering  at  his  long  silence,  I  said,  "I 
came  to  visit  you  to-night,  Nocomis,  because  I  have  heard  so  many 
tales  concerning  you  that  I  could  not  wait  longer." 

"But  were  you  not  afraid?"  he  answered  (I  was  only  a  lad  of 
twelve),  and  he  pointed  to  the  wall  above  the  fireplace.  There, 
arranged  in  a  circle,  hung  bowie-knives  and  pistols,  bows  of  almost 
every  description,  and  arrows  tipped  with  stone,  while  in  the  center 
was  something  black  that  I  could  not  make  out.  I  now  glanced  about 
the  room;  the  walls  were  decorated  with  the  heads  of  deer,  bears, 
and  the  skins  of  wild  animals;  and  while  I  was  wondering  at  all  this 
I  felt  a  gentle  touch  upon  my  arm  and  Nocomis  again  pointed  above 
the  fireplace. 

"See,"  he  said,  "there  are  the  scalps  of  thirty  warriors,  and  these 
knives  and  arrows  I  took  from  their  dead  bodies." 

233 


A  thrill  of  horror  ran  through  me;  he  noticed  that  I  was  fright- 
ened, and  then  he  quietly  said: 

"But,  lad,  those  times  are  passed  and  'Old  Nocomis'  has  left  the 
war-path:  no  more  shall  our  camp-fires  blaze;  no  more  shall  the  pipes 
of  peace  be  smoked,  for  the  white  man  has  crushed  out  our  life;  he 
calls  us  civilized  now  and  makes  us  dwell  in  houses  instead  of  wig- 
wams; he  has  cut  down  our  forests,  and  we  must  now  till  the  land 
where  once  we  roved  and  hunted." 

It  must  have  been  near  midnight  when  he  blew  the  ashes  from  his 
long-stemmed  pipe,  and,  fixing  his  eyes  steadily  upon  me,  said : 

"Something  tells  Nocomis  to  relate  a  tale  which  he  has  told  to  few. 
We  were  savages  once,  and  the  echoing  war-whoop  was  the  sweetest 
sound  to  our  ears.  Nequimis  was  my  friend,  and  a  truer  friend  'Old 
Nocomis'  never  had." 

Here  he  filled  his  pipe,  and  lit  it  with  an  ember  that  snapped  on 
the  floor  before  him. 

"Nequimis  was  my  friend,"  he  repeated;  "we  were  boys  together, 
and  had  shared  each  other's  boyish  triumphs,  and  had  wept  in  each 
other's  affliction;  for,  lad,  the  heart  of  a  savage  is  yet  human.  To- 
gether we  had  followed  the  trail  of  the  deer,  'Wa  was  kish,'  and  when 
ac  evening  we  sat  about  our  camp-fire,  our  hearts  were  filled  with  the 
same  wild  joy  as  we  listened  to  the  savage  tales  of  our  chief,  Bowesig. 
Years  rolled  by  and  we  were  men,  yet  two  hearts  were  never  bound 
more  closely  together;  but  one  day  Bowesig  died,  and  the  death-note 
to  our  friendship  rang  out.  Our  tribe  must  have  a  new  chief,  and  part 
were  for  Nequimis  and  part  for  me.  Each  took  his  followers  and  there- 
after we  were  enemies;  yet  I  loved  him.  Those  scenes  of  my  boyhood 
ever  lingered  in  my  mind,  and  I  thought  of  how  one  winter's  day  he 
had  rescued  me  from  the  icy  waters  of  the  Shiawassee. 

"He  was  strong  and  brave;  his  light  brown  skin  was  as  smooth  as 
marble  and  his  muscles  as  hard  as  steel;  his  eye  could  flash  like  wild- 
fire, or  in  a  moment  twinkle  with  merriment. 

"As  each  knew  the  other's  cunning,  it  was  long  before  we  had  a 
conflict;  but  one  day  my  scout  came  rushing  to  me,  and  said, 
'Nequimis  strikes  to-morrow  night,  when  that  hill-top  yonder  shall 
hide  the  setting  sun.' 

"The  next  evening  I  led  my  men  to  ambush  about  sixty  rods  from 
our  wigwams;  and  just  as  the  last  ray  of  light  lingered  on  the  mossy 
summit  of  the  hill  that  my  spy  had  named,  Nequimis  and  his  warriors 
passed  us  in  their  trail  with  noiseless  tread.  Soon  we  heard  the  wild 
war-cry  ring  out,  and  a  moment  later  a  shout  of  disappointment,  for 
they  had  found  the  wigwams  deserted.  I  now  planned  to  outwit  my 
enemy  and  to  take  him  by  surprise. 

"We  hunted  each  other  for  weeks  without  a  battle;  but  one  night 
as  we  again  lay  in  ambush,  Nequimis  and  his  same  band  of  warriors 
passed  us  and  halted  for  their  night's  rest  not  more  than  fifty  rods 
away.     My  chance  had  come;    with  only  two  of  my  men  I  crept  care- 

234 


fully  along  the  trail  of  our  enemy,  for  even  the  rustling  of  a  leaf  would 
betray  us.  When  within  ten  yards  of  their  camp  a  twig  snapped  under 
my  hand,  and  like  a  flash  all  those  painted  warriors  were  on  their 
feet.  As  I  could  not  distinguish  their  chief,  I  suddenly  shouted  with 
jill  my  strength,  'Nequimis.'  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  'Nequimis' 
fell  into  the  trap  of  his  enemy,  for,  turning,  he  uttered  one  wild, 
piercing  yell,  'Nocomis.'  That  was  enough;  I  had  found  my  man,  and 
I  sent  an  arrow  speeding  to  his  heart.  As  I  dashed  to  the  side  of  the 
fallen  brave,  his  warriors  fled  like  madmen. 

■The  pale  moon  cast  a  dim  light  upon  his  face;  I  saw  his  eye 
flash  wild  with  haughty  hatred;  but  in  a  moment  a  smile  crept  over 
his  countenance,  and  I  beheld  once  more  the  friend  of  my  childhood, 
the  dearest  friend  I  had  ever  known." 

Nocomis's  voice  trembled,  and  a  tear  stole  down  his  cheek,  but 
recovering  himself,  he  continued: 

"Nequimis  raised  his  hand,  and  I  grasped  it  with  the  same  warmth 
of  olden  days.  I  stooped  to  brush  back  the  long  black  locks  of  hair 
from  his  forehead  and  noticed  his  lips  move.  Bending  low  I  heard 
him  whisper: 

"  'Let  us  part  friends,  O  Nocomis.' 

"There  on  bended  knee  I  drew  the  arrow  from  his  breast,  and 
showered  my  tears  upon  the  wound." 

Nocomis  ceased;  tears  trickled  down  the  deep  furrows  in  his  dark 
cheeks;  and  as  he  gazed  into  the  dying  embers,  I  fancied  that  he  was 
once  more  kneeling  beside  Nequimis,  his  bitterest'  enemy  yet  his 
dearest  friend. — Jas.  F.  Halliday. 


THE    TIME    I    RAN    MY    BEST. 

As  the  result  of  a  story  in  the  Youth's  Companion,  it  became  the 
custom  of  the  boys  of  our  neighborhood  to  go,  the  night  before  Easter, 
to  some  secluded  spot  where  we  could  build  a  fire,  cook  eggs,  and 
indulge  in  the  delightful  terror  aroused  by  ghost  stories.  The  last 
of  these  midnight  revels  that  I  attended  has  left  such  an  impression 
that  every  detail  is  vividly  photographed  upon  my  memory. 

It  had  been  rainy  for  several  days,  and  upon  this  night  low,  dark 
clouds  were  driving  across  the  sky,  allowing  the  moon  to  show  for 
a  few  moments,  and  again  casting  a  shadow  whose  blackness  was 
intensified  by  the  preceding  light.  The  place  chosen  for  the  feast  was 
upon  a  point  of  land  formed  by  a  horseshoe-shaped  curve  of  a  creek 
known  as  "Little  Jordan."  This  stream,  which  in  summer  was  merely 
a  succession  of  pools  connected  by  shallow  "riffles,"  now  flowed,  black 
and  sullen,  within  a  few  inches  of  the  top  of  its  ten-foot  banks.  Directly 
in  front  of  the  opening  of  the  horseshoe  was  a  knoll  covered  with  a 
growth   of   prairie   willows,   which   showed   black   and   scraggy   in   the 

235 


fleeting  moments  of  moonlight.  The  place  was  fairly  heavy  with  lone- 
someness.  The  nearest  house  was  two  miles  away  and  out  of  sight. 
The  dark  water,  slipping  along  between  the  full  banks,  gave  forth  an 
oily  gurgling,  while  the  chill  spring  wind  groaned  and  sighed  in  the 
bare  branches  of  the  willows  with  sounds  that  seemed  not  of  this 
earth. 

For  some  reason  we  boys  were  strangely  quiet  that  night.  The 
few  words  exchanged  were  spoken  in  half-whispers,  as  if  we  feared 
that  those  fleeting  shadows  might  hear.  We  hastened  to  build  our 
fire  with  dry  material  that  we  had  brought  along,  hoping  that  the 
cheery  blaze  would  dispel  our  gloom;  but  it  only  increased  our  rest- 
less fears.  My  cousin  Will,  the  oldest  of  the  party,  started  a  rollicking 
song,  but  he  changed  to  a  whistle  at  the  end  of  the  first  bar,  and  then 
stopped,  while  our  youngest  member,  a  lad  who  bore  the  great  name 
but  lacked  the  'intrepid  spirit  of  him  who  crossed  the  Rubicon,  sug- 
gested in  quavering  tones  that  it  was  a  very  chilly  night,  and  that  we 
had  better  go  home.  It  was  lucky,  indeed,  for  us,  as  later  events 
proved,  that  we  were  so  thoroughly  frightened  that  the  slightest 
addition  to  our  terror  caused  a  panic. 

We  determined  to  have  our  fun  out  at  any  rate,  and  soon  eggs  were 
cooking  in  kettles  that  had  been  slyly  appropriated  while  maternal 
backs  were  turned,  and  apples  and  potatoes  were  roasting  in  the  hot 
coals.  But  still  the  dreary  surroundings  oppressed  us.  The  dark 
shadows  chased  one  another  across  the  evil-looking  strip  of  water;  the 
willows  complained  against  the  harsh  treatment  of  the  raw  breeze; 
while  a  dull  intermittent  roar  came  to  ourvears  from  the  dam  two  miles 
up  the  creek. 

Presently,  however,  all  lesser  sounds  were  drowned  in  a  long  rend- 
ing crash  like  the  first  rumblings  of  a  thunder-clap.  We  all  leaped  to 
our  feet,  dreading  we  knew  not  what.  The  crash  was  succeeded  by  a 
hissing  roar  that  increased  in  volume  with  every  beat  of  our  palpitating 
hearts.     Will  was  the  first  to  come  to  his  senses. 

"Jerusalem,  fellows,  it's  the  dam!"  he  shouted,  and,  calling  to  the 
rest  to  follow  his  example,  he  seized  one  of  the  smaller  boys  by  the 
hand  and  started  at  a  run  for  the  knoll.  If  I  could  make  as  fast  time 
on  the  cinder  path  as  I  did  that  night  over  the  hummocks  and  stones 
of  Jordan  Point,  dragging  little  Julius  Caesar  Brown  by  the  wrist,  my 
reputation  as  a  sprinter  would  be  made.  But  we  were  none  too  quick. 
While  still  what  seemed  miles  from  the  hill,  a  side  glance  showed  me 
a  rapidly  approaching  line  of  white,  extending  many  rods  wider  than 
the  bed  of  the  stream.  However,  fear  lent  us  wings,  and  we  reache:l 
the  willows  just  in  time  to  turn  and  see  our  fire  suddenly  blotted  out  as 
that  line  of  foaming  whiteness  went  rushing  by. 

Thus  we  escaped  the  deluge,  but  not  the  wrath  to  come,  for  among 
my  memories  of  that  night  is  a  very  vivid  one  of  the  interview  with 
my  mother  concerning  the  lost  kettle.— C.  G.  Sabin. 

23(3 


THE  MYSTERY  OF  HENRY  THOMPSON. 

You  may  talk  of  your  Cronin  and  your  Luetgert  cases,  but  neither 
of  them  can  at  all  compare  in  point  of  mystery  with  an  affair  that  came 
under  my  own  observation. 

Four  years  ago  I  was  in  the  city  of  Ashland.  Wisconsin.  It  was 
the  week  before  the  general  election,  and  I  hud  just  finished  a 
"stumping"  tour  of  the  county  In  behalf  of  my  friend,  James  Firth, 
who  was  seeking  re-election  as  sheriff.  Early  on  Friday  morning  I 
in  Mr.  Firth's  office  discussing  the  final  arrangements  of  the 
campaign,  when  a  messenger  rushed  in,  and,  as  soon  as  he  could  catch 
his  breath,  told  us  that  Henry  Thompson,  treasurer  of  the  Keystone 
Lumber  Company,  had  been  murdered  during  the  night. 

The  large  plant  belonging  to  this  company  is  situated  in  the  west 
side  of  the  city,  along  the  shore  of  Chequamegon  Bay.  Thither  Jim 
and  I  were  hastily  driven,  and  upon  our  arrival  were  at  once  taken  by 
Superintendent  Maxwell  to  the  office.  What  a  sight  there  met  our  eyes! 
At  our  feet  and  all  about  the  floor  were  the  scattered  fragments  of 
broken  chairs.  In  the  middle  of  the  room  the  office  desk  lay  up- 
turned, while  under  it  and  around  it  were  books,  papers,  and  broken 
ink-bottles.  Great  splotches  of  blood  smeared  the  floor,  the  walls,  and 
the  furniture.  It  was  quite  evident  that  a  fierce  struggle  had  taken 
place  and  that  brave  Thompson  had  sold  his  life  dearly.  At  the 
further  end  of  the  room  stood  the  safe,  with  its  door  wide  open. 
Examination  showed  that  there  was  missing  about  $12,000  in  cash  and 
in  time  checks,  placed  there  in  readiness  for  the  monthly  pay-day. 
Here,  then,  was  a  motive  for  the  horrible  crime. 

But  no  corpse  was  found.  A  light  coat  of  snow  that  had  fallen 
on  the  previous  evening  enabled  the  men,  however,  to  trace  the  red 
stains  out  of  the  office  into  the  street.  The  blood  splotches  here 
assumed  the  form  of  streaks  caused,  without  doubt,  by  the  dragging 
of  the  corpse  over  the  ground.  Around  the  mill  and  through  the  yard 
the  tracks  were  traced  as  far  as  the  boathouse,  where  they  disap- 
peared. It  was  seen,  however,  that  one  of  the  boats  had  been  wrenched 
from  its  fastenings  and  was  missing. 

There  was  now  no  solution  of  the  mystery  other  than  that  the 
body  had  been  taken  out  and  dumped  overboard.  Orders  were  accord- 
ingly given  to  drag  the  bay.  During  the  whole  morning  and  through- 
out the  afternoon  chains  and  nets  swept  the  harbor,  but  no  corpse  came 
to  view.  In  the  evening,  all  night,  and  until  late  the  next  morning 
volunteer  crews  took  turns  in  endeavoring  to  find  traces  of  the  body, 
but  nothing  was  discovered  save  a  small  wooden  snuff-box  bearing 
the  initials,  "H.  E.  T."  The  old  inhabitant  wagged  his  head  and  once 
more  gave  the  warning,  "The  deep  waters  of  Lake  Superior  never  give 
up  the  dead.'' 

There  was  one  man,  however,  who  did  not  believe  that  Thompson 
had  been  murdered.   Thomas  Bardon,  the  mayor,  had  a  different  theory, 


and  gave  instructions  to  the  Chief  of  Police  to  telegraph  messages  of 
inquiry  to  the  authorities  of  Duluth,  Minneapolis,  Chicago,  and  other 
cities. 

On  Sunday  morning  a  number  of  rough-looking  miners  got  off  the 
Wisconsin  Central  train  at  Chicago.  Among  them  was  a  clean-shaven 
man  with  a  bandage  over  one  eye  and  a  cap  pulled  well  down  over  the 
other.  His  hands  did  not  appear  as  though  they  were  used  to  wielding 
a  pick-axe  or  a  shovel.  A  detective  who  had  been  shadowing  him  for 
some  time  presently  had  him  arrested  and  taken  to  police  headquarters, 
where,  after  a  severe  examination,  the  prisoner  admitted  that  his  name 
was  Henry  E.  Thompson,  and  that  he  himself  had  carried  off  the 
money  that  was  missing  in  Ashland.  But  what  about  the  blood?  That 
was  easily  provided  by  beheading  two  old  Maltese  cats. — T.  O.  Edgar. 


A    WRITING    BOARD. 

As  much  of  the  world's  history  has  been  gathered  from  tablets  and 
inscriptions  as  from  the  writings  of  the  historian.  Thus,  much  of  the 
history  of  Northwestern,  which  has  escaped  the  catalogues  and  syllabi, 
may  be  learned  from  the  writing  boards  about  Old  College.  Let  us 
decipher  one  of  these  tablets  to  see  what  story  of  the  past  it  telle. 

This  particular  board  lies  with  many  others  in  a  pile  at  the  side  of 
Professor  Clark's  desk  in  room  three,  Old  College.  It  has  no  marked 
individuality  nor  anything  that  especially  recommends  it  to  our  atten- 
tion, and  were  we  not  relic-hunting,  it  would  escape  our  notice. 

Its  color  is  a  dark  grey,  and  in  size  it  is  a  trifle  smaller  than  some 
of  its  newer  and  less-used  companions.  It  has  no  binding  around  the 
edges,  and  about  three  inches  are  missing  from  one  corner.  Both 
sides  of  the  board  are  covered  with  inscriptions,  written  at  every  angle, 
and  in  various  languages.  Some,  by  their  freshness,  betray  their 
recent  origin,  while  others  have  become  nearly  obliterated  by  the 
ravages  of  time.  At  the  first  glance,  it  seems  impossible  to  decipher 
this  chaotic  jumble,  yet,  upon  closer  application,  we  may  find  the 
meaning  of  some  of  its  strange  characters.  Across  one  corner  are 
some  Greek  letters,  and  these  we  find  to  be  fraternity  monograms.  They 
were  evidently  written  to  decorate  the  tablet,  and  had  no  particular 
use.  Near  these,  pictures  appear  which  possibly  conform  to  the 
ancients'  ideas  of  art,  but  which,  to  our  higher  cultivated  tastes,  seem 
crude  and  grotesque. 

Yet,  at  some  time  in  its  history,  this  board  has  been  of  a  different 
use  than  that  which  these  pictures  would  indicate.  Often  it  was  used 
for  correspondence,  for  along  one  side  is  written,  "She  is  looking  swell 
to-day,  isn't  she?"    while  the  answer  is  below, 

"Ambiguous  use  of  the  pronoun." 

Our  attempts  to  read  some  lines,  evidently  a  poem,  are  futile  on 
account  of  the  signatures  and  initials  written  over  them.  We  think 
of   the   world's    best   poems   that   have    been    scribbled    off-hand    on   a 

238 


window  pane  or  a  board,  and  regret  what  may  be  lost  to  the  world 
forever  because  of  some  one  eager  to  leave  his  name  everywhere. 
Another  poem,  however,  has  not  yet  been  destroyed,  possibly  because 
it  was  written  recently,  but  probably  it  was  saved  Prom  destruction  by 
its  excellence.     It  reads, 

"When  she  stands  up  in  English  A 
To  read  a  descriptive  essay. 
We  almost  wish  the  bell  won't  ring, 
For  she's  too  sweet  for  anything." 
This  board   is  at  present  used  to   write  on   in   examinations.     In 
this  capacity  it  has  served  in  the  past,  for  in  one  corner,  written  in 
ink,  very  small  but  legible,  are  the  "thirty-nine  articles  of  the  English 
faith,"  while  another  corner  bears  the  inscription, 

"Precision  is  that  quality  of  style  that  requires  that  words  be  so 
selected  and  combined  as  to  convey  exactly  the  meaning  intended  by 
the  writer;    no  more,  no  less." 

After  obtaining  this  glimpse  of  the  past  through  the  study  of  this 
tablet,  we  long  to  examine  the  hundred  others  of  its  kind,  but  lack  of 
time  causes  our  search  to  end  here. — R.  H.  Burke. 


MARY    JANE    GILMORE. 

The  spring  and  summer  of  '97  I  spent  in  the  backwoods  of  Ver- 
mont, in  a  part  of  the  Green  Mountain  State  called  Pumpkin  Harbor. 
The  Harbor  is  a  stretch  of  low  land  among  the  hills;  it  comprises 
four  farms,  and  on  one  of  these — the  first  on  the  left  hand  side  of  the 
road  as  you  drive  down  from  the  village — lives  Mary  Jane  Gilmore 
and  her  husband,   George. 

Mary  Jane  is  an  unusual  woman  in  many  ways.  So  long  as  she 
stands  perfectly  still  in  front  of  the  village  store,  a  stranger  notices 
nothing  striking  in  her  appearance.  Of  medium  height,  plump  but 
not  stout,  she  stands  erect,  and  nervously  fingers  the  fringe  of  her 
paisley  shawl;  her  hair  is  buff-colored,  her  eyes  a  very  light  blue,  and 
her  cheeks  a  vivid  red.  Her  taste  in  dress  is  somewhat  unfortunate; 
she  is  fond  of  bright  colors,  and  the  blues,  reds  and  yellows  which  she 
most  affects  are  such  as  entirely  to  quench  any  suggestion  of  life  in 
hair  and  eyes. 

Altogether,  Mary  Jane  Gilmore  appears  in  repose  like  the  ninety- 
nine  other  farmers'  wives  who  bring  eggs  to  town;  but  let  Mary  Jane 
walk  down  the  village  street,  and  no  observer  could  doubt  either  her 
strength  of  character  or  the  vitality  of  her  constitution.  Wait,  how- 
ever, for  her  to  accost  you,  which  she  is  sure  to  do,  and  the  wisdom 
of  Solomon  is  nothing  compared  with  the  amount  of  information  which 
she  will  pour  into  your  ears.  Her  tongue  has  unlimited  endurance. 
Beginning  with  the  parson's  baby,  she  ends  with  Hansen's  expedition, 
all  in  accordance  with  approved  laws  of  association.     Mary  Jane  Gil- 


more  is  one  of  those  people  wno  love  to  talk;  she  seems  absolutely 
independent  of  a  breathing  apparatus,  and  is  approachable  on  any  topic. 
She  does  not  believe  in  gossip,  but  she  takes  a  friendly  interest  in 
her  neighbors'  affairs. 

Whether  at  church  or  in  the  garden,  Mary  is  always  herself;  her 
manner  varies  just  enough  to  suit  the  occasion,  but  is  always  charac- 
teristic. She  never  misses  a  funeral,  and  she  loves  to  go  to  the  circus, 
although  she  seldom  feels  that  she  can  spend  the  money.  At  church 
her  emotional  nature  is  uppermost;  she  carries  along  the  hymns  with 
the  vigor  of  a  Caesar — singing  is  business,  which,  like  scrubbing  the 
kitchen  floor,  must  be  "got  through  with."  A  feverish  haste  charac- 
terizes all  that  she  does.  When  the  minister  from  his  green  baize  pulpit 
thunders  of  hell,  Mary  grows  rigid;  if  her  shepherd  relentlessly  pic- 
tures the  evils  of  eternal  torment,  she  sits  breathlessly  on  the  edge  of 
the  seat.  The  real  effect  of  such  a  sermon  is  visible  in  all  that  she 
does  during  the  following  week;  she  is  guarded  in  her  conversation, 
scrupulous  in  her  actions,  and  apt  to  lay  aside  a  little  something  for 
the  support  of  missionaries  in  foreign  fields.  Probably  no  victim  of 
the  inquisition  ever  trembled  before  rack  and  wheel  more  than  does 
Mary  before  the  thought  of  hell. 

No  such  spectre  is  necessary,  however,  in  domestic  affairs.  Mary 
Jane  is  a  model  housewife.  The  stove  always  shines;  the  doorstep 
has  a  tired  look,  and  the  windows  fairly  gleam  from  their  red  brick 
setting.  She  flies  from  one  thing  to  another;  she  is  here,  she  is 
there,  she  is  everywhere.  She  will  never  have  "help"  in  her  kitchen; 
young  girls  are  too  shiftless  and  wasteful;  older  women  "too  set  in 
their  ways." 

Mary  Jane  loves  water  in  all  its  uses  and  manifestations.  It  is 
a  pleasure  to  her  to  work  out-of-doors  in  the  rain;  and  when  I  found 
her  on  such  occasions  weeding  in  her  garden  or  piling  up  sawn  wood, 
she  would  laugh  in  half-embarrassment  and  say:  "George  says  I'm  a 
reg'lar  duck  for  water,  but  I  guess  it's  a  goose  that  I  am." 

With  all  her  eccentricities,  Mary  Jane  is  scrupulously  honest;  she 
is  "terribly  savin',"  as  the  neighbors  say;  she  uses  much  cornstarch 
in  the  making  of  her  ice-cream,  and  pours  her  coffee  into  the  empty 
cream-pitcher  "so  as  to  get  the  good  of  the  cream;"  but  when  you 
send  over  to  buy  a  dozen  eggs,  she  never  forgets  to  explain  that  the 
largest  ones  are  packed  in  lime;  nor  will  she  accept  full  price  for 
the  smaller  ones.  Though  "savin'  "  of  money  and  material  goods,  Mary 
Jane  is  prodigal  in  kind  acts  and  thoughtfulness  of  others.  In  fact, 
the  last  time  I  saw  her  she  was  down  on  hands  and  knees  in  the 
pine-woods  groping  for  the  herbs  which  should  cure  a  neighbor's  ills. 
— Edna  M.  Hawley. 


OUR    MONITOR. 

Sue  says  it  is  a  goat,  but  I  haven't  a  doubt  that  it  is  a  Burmese 

240 


ox.  My  "Harper's  Primary  Geography"  contained  a  most  impressive 
picture  of  one  of  the  small,  long-haired  Burmese  oxen,  and  I  have  not 
seen,  since  the  days  of  my  earliest  infancy,  an  animal,  real  or  arti- 
ficial, so  much  like  that  picture,  indelibly  impressed  upon  my  memory. 
Hence  I  shall  call  our  monitor  a  Burmese  ox,  even  at  the  risk  of 
making  Sue  my  life-long  enemy. 

Now,  don't  for  a  moment  think  that  I  am  talking  about  a  real, 
live  Burmese  ox.  Our  monitor  is  only  a  toy  animal  about  an  inch  and 
a  half  high,  standing  on  our  study  table  and  by  his  silent  influence 
reminding  us  that  we  must  not  talk  during  study  hours. 

I  have  heard  that  most  Burmese  oxen  have  dark  hides,  so  our  pet 
must  be  an  exception,  for  his  hair  is  soft  and  white,  and  (I  must 
confess  it.  though  I  would  dislike  to  have  him  hear  me  say  so)  it  looks 
very  much  like  cotton.  His  beard,  also,  has  the  same  appearance. 
But  his  eyes  sparkle  like  diamonds,  or  perhaps  I  should  say  like  glass 
beads.  His  ears  are  the  pink  of  perfection,  and  I  use  the  term 
advisedly,  for  a  more  beautiful  shade  of  pink  I  never  saw.  They  seem 
to  be  pricked  up,  just  waiting  to  hear  a  word  from  one  of  us,  when 
the  diamond  eyes  will  flash,  the  little  corkscrew  tail  will  swish,  and 
the  tiny  black  hoofs  will  stamp  in  rage. 

Our  little  friend  has  not  come  to  this  stage  in  his  existence  with- 
out some  very  serious  misfortunes.  If  you  look  at  him  closely,  you 
will  see  an  ugly  red  scar  on  his  back.  One  day  last  week  Sue  let  him 
fall  into  a  pool  of  carmine  ink  with  which  she  was  working,  and  I 
rushed  to  the  rescue  just  in  time  to  save  him  from  drowning.  I 
washed  him  as  best  I  could,  and,  except  that  he  looks  as  if  he  were 
blushing  all  the  time,  he  is  none  the  worse  for  his  adventure. 

Perhaps  you  are  inclined  to  underestimate  the  intellectual  capacity 
of  our  monitor.  I  never  saw  a  Burmese  ox  (or  a  goat  either,  for  that 
matter,  for  Sue  still  insists  that  he  is  a  goat)  with  a  more  knowing 
expression.  His  firm  yet  pleasant  mouth,  his  broad  and  noble  forehead, 
and  his  attitude  of  interested  attention,  all  bespeak  a  master  mind.  Of 
course,  he  realizes  the  truth  of  the  adage,  "Little  folks  should  be  seen 
and  not  heard,"  but  I  am  sure  that  he  holds  communion  with  himself 
during  the  still  hours  of  the  night,  when  his  day's  work  is  ended. 

Both  Sue  and  I  have  become  very  much  attached  to  our  monitor. 
We  look  to  him  as  to  an  elder  brother,  for,  by  his  quiet  manners, 
by  his  intelligent  comprehension  of  affairs  around  him.  and  by  his 
attention  to  duty  he  is  to  us  a  constant  rebuke.  Nothing  can  take  the 
place  in  our  affections  held  by  our  little  monitor. — Isabel  O.  Warring- 
ton. 

"OLD   SOLOMON." 

Back  in  the  most  rural  part  of  C county,  Michigan,  lives 

a  quaint  character  with  whom  I  have  long  been  familiar.  It  may  be 
the  rustic  nature  of  his  dwelling — the  picturesque  log-cabin  against  its 

241 


background  of  verdant  forest,  with  the  ivy  wandering  uncontrolled 
over  its  weather-beaten  front  and  the  velvet  grass  creeping  up  to  the 
mouldering  threshold,  that  makes  a  visit  to  this  quiet  spot  a  pleasur? 
long  remembered  and  an  anticipation  enjoyed  for  days  before;  but 
I  think  that  the  blameless  life  of  the  simple-minded  tenant  is  what 
draws  one  to  his  modest  home. 

As  I  approach  his  humble  dwelling,  "Old  Solomon"  (for  such  is  the 
name  by  which  the  whole  country-side  designates  him)  comes  to  grasp 
my  hand  with  all  the  warmth  of  his  nature.  His  clear  blue  eyes  smile 
out  at  me  from  beneath  their  shaggy  brows,  while  his  low,  pleasant 
voice  bids  me  a  hearty  welcome.  He  is  a  man  of  medium  height.  His 
well-knit  frame  is  suggestive  of  strength  and  endurance,  his  square 
jaw  and  firm  mouth  give  evidence  of  determination,  while  his  frank, 
open  countenance  and  manly  bearing  bespeak  the  true  nobleness  of 
his  soul.  His  age  is  uncertain.  Deep  lines  in  his  forehead  betoken  a 
long  season  of  buffeting  the  storms  of  life,  but  his  smile  is  "ever 
young,"  though  sometimes  pathetically  sad. 

"Old  Solomon's"  life  is  a  strange  one.  Here,  year  after  year,  he 
lives  in  his  simple  home,  away  from  society,  without  human  com- 
panionship, "near  to  nature's  heart."  He  spends  the  summer  days 
working  in  his  little  garden  and  in  wandering  over  the  somewhat 
wild  country  near  his  cabin.  He  is  something  of  a  naturalist,  too, 
and  the  single  room  of  his  dwelling  is  fitted  with  shelves  on  which  he 
has  arranged  row  after  row  of  curious  stones  picked  up  in  the  course 
of  his  ramblings.  All  the  denizens  of  the  woods  seem  to  know  his 
kindness,  for  they  show  little  fear  of  him.  Nor  is  their  confidence  mis- 
placed, for  the  old  man  loves  all  creatures  that  God  has  made.  He 
observes  very  closely  the  habits  of  animals,  and  often  entertains  me 
with  tales  from  nature.  But  it  is  seldom  indeed  that  he  speaks  of  his 
sorrowful  past. 

"Old  Solomon's"  youth  was  filled  with  promise.  His  developing 
mind  was  broadened  by  a  liberal  education,  and  it  was  with  the  high- 
est expectations  that  his  numerous  friends  watched  the  opening  of  his 
career;  but  the  Grim  Monster  came  and  snatched  from  his  cheerful 
fireside  all  in  life  that  he  held  most  dear,  and  he  turned  from  the 
grave  of  his  buried  hopes  to  face  the  world  alone.  Through  a  long  life 
of  varied  fortune  he  never  recovered  from  the  shock  his  young  man- 
hood had  received,  and  finally  sought  this  retirement  in  which  to  spend 
his  declining  years  with  the  memories  of  the  past. 

So  there  are  days  when  I  find  him  sitting  in  his  armchair  with  his 
open  Bible  on  his  knee,  gazing  absently  out  across  the  meadows.  Then 
I  steal  softly  away,  for  I  know  that  he  is  living  again  in  the  days  that 
are  gone,  and  that,  with  the  eye  of  faith,  he  is  looking  across  the  dark 
valley  to  his  loved  ones  in  their  Heavenly  Home  beyond. — C.  H.  Wood. 


24: 


MY  GOLF  BAG. 

It  is  with  a  little  regret  that  I  look  at  my  golf  bag,  for  its  prede- 
cessor was  stolen  from  its  locker  one  night  last  summer.  It  seemed  to 
be  an  old  friend,  while  this  one  is  comparatively  new,  and  we  are 
only  just  getting  acquainted. 

The  bag  leans  in  the  corner,  and  reminds  one  of  a  Japanese 
umbrella-stand,  chock  full  of  canes.  It  is  cylindrical  in  shape;  about 
three  feet  in  length  and  eight  inches  in  diameter.  Although  it  is  not 
old,  yet  there  are  signs  of  wear,  not  so  many  about  the  bag  itself  as  on 
its  contents. 

This  interesting  receptacle  is  of  canvas  with  leather  trimmings. 
But  whereas  the  old  bag  was  of  brilliant  colors,  resembling  the 
gorgeous  hues  of  the  late  September  days,  the  new  one  is  a  mixture  of 
dull  green  and  somber  blue,  reminding  one  of  the  dismal,  rainy  days  of 
the  last  of  November. 

There  is  a  band  of  heavy,  tan-colored  leather  at  the  top  of  the  bag, 
and  one  a  little  wider  at  the  bottom.  Half-way  between  the  top  and 
bottom  is  a  leather  handle,  and  joined  to  the  canvas  about  half  a 
foot  from  either  end  is  a  heavy  shoulder  strap.  A  few  inches  from  the 
handle  is  the  necessary  addition  of  a  pocket,  five  or  six  inches  square, 
which  holds  about  half  a  dozen  golf  balls. 

All  that  I  can  see  of  the  contents  of  the  bag  are  the  heads  of  five 
sticks  peering  curiously  over  the  leather  rim.  The  head  of  the  tallest 
projects  nine  or  ten  inches  above  the  top  of  the  golf  bag.  Two  of  the 
sticks  consist  of  light-colored  wood.  One  of  them  is  called  the  driver 
and  the  other  the  brassy.  The  head  of  each  is  almost  at  right  angles 
to  the  handle,  and  resembles  a  good-sized  potato  in  its  shape  and  size. 
Their  only  visible  difference  is  that  the  brassy,  in  accordance  with  its 
name,  has  a  flat  brass  cap  covering  the  top  of  the  head,  while  the  driver 
bears  the  heat  of  the  scorching  sun  bare-headed. 

The  other  slender  occupants  of  the  case  are  three  iron-headed» 
sticks,  which  are  a  few  inches  shorter  than  their  three  wooden  com- 
panions. The  longest  is  called  the  cleek.  Its  head  is  almost  oblong  in 
shape  and  very  nearly  vertical.  The  lofter,  who  is  ambitious  in  help- 
ing others  to  soar,  bends  his  head  at  an  angle  of  forty-five  degrees. 
The  smallest,  the  baby,  whose  name  is  Putter,  is  shaped  exactly  like 
the  cleek,  except  that  the  head  is  larger. 

As  I  turn  away  from  my  golf  clubs  I  sigh  to  think  that  the  cold 
winter  days  are  close  at  hand  and  that  my  stanch  little  friends  will 
have  to  take  a  rest  until  the  bright  days  of  spring  come  again.  And 
then,  as  soon  as  the  weather  will  permit,  we. will  resume  our  games 
and  continue  them  as  long  as  we  possibly  can. — Ruth  Ray. 


"JINKS." 


Jinks  was  an  odd  fellow.     Nobody  ever  tried  to  explain  his 

243 


tricities  after  the  first  two  or  three  attempts.  His  oddities  could  no'; 
be  placed  under  any  law;  so,  as  a  result,  the  usual  answer  to  any 
question  regarding  his  peculiarities  was,  "Oh,  that's  Jinks,"  with  a 
decided  emphasis  on  the  "Jinks." 

What  his  talents  were  nobody  in  the  seminary  at  B seemed  to 

know.  Certainly  his  form  and  carriage  were  not  of  the  Greek  Apollo 
type  but  rather  those  of  an  overworked  rural  deity.  "Jinks"  was 
what  is  commonly  known  as  a  plodder;  he  was  always  at  work.  In 
view  of  his  economy  of  time  started  the  saying  that  he  "worked  days, 
studied  nights,  and  slept  during  recitations."  Besides  these  qualities 
he  had  the  regulation  ministerial  twang  in  his  voice,  which,  com- 
bined with  his  dignity  of  bearing  and  general  seriousness  of  purpose, 
seemed  especially  to  fit  him  for  the  work  of  a  country  preacher. 

Jinks  believed  that  he  had  been  called  to  the  ministry,  although  in 
a  doubtful  moment  he  acknowledged  to  a  friend  that  he  sometimes 
thought  that  "God  had  made  a  mistake"  in  the  call.  Besides  the 
ambition  to  be  a  preacher  he  desired  most  of  all  to  become  learned  in 
theology,  in  ethics,  and  in  the  kindred  sciences.  Drummond  he  read 
and  admired;  Huxley  he  enjoyed,  or  thought  that  he  did;  and  the 
works  of  Darwin  were  to  him  a  constant  fund  of  material  for  his 
unasked-for  dinner-table  lectures  on  evolution.  In  matters  biblical  he 
had  a  decided  inclination  toward  higher  criticism  and  a  corresponding 
aversion  to  literal  interpretation.  Whatever  other  faults  it  may  have 
had,  "Jinks's"  language  was  never  open  to  the  charge  of  "too  great  con- 
densation." The  longer  the  word  the  better  it  suited  him.  In  writing 
an  essay  the  first  and  greatest  requirement  was  a  title,  which  was 
usually  a  wonder  in  itself.  He  once  astonished  the  literary  society  of 
which  he  was  a  member  by  announcing  the  subject  of  his  paper  as 
"Man's  Insatiable  Thirst  for  Knowledge,  or  the  Boundless  Realm  of  the 
Soul." 

At  last,  after  weary  years  of  tending  furnaces,  milking  cows,  wash- 
ing floors,  and  failing  in  examinations,  "Jinks"  was  graduated.     From 

the  seminary  at  B he  went  to  Boston  to  enter  the  theological  school 

as  a  special  student.     Here  his  surroundings  were  not  so  congenial  as 

they  had  been  in  B .     He  was  a  stranger  in  an  unknown  country; 

his  fellow  students  had  cares  and  sorrows  of  their  own;  the  professors 
had  little  time  to  spend  on  a  not  over-brilliant  "special;"  the  cheap 
restaurant  where  he  worked  for  his  meals  had  little  of  the  homelike  air 
to  which  he  had  been  accustomed;  so  what  wonder  is  it  if  at  times  he 
found  his  thoughts  turning  aside  from  historic  scenes,  from  college 
halls,  and  from  learned  professors,  and  seeking  again  the  scenes  of 
his  boyhood?  That  "Jinks"  was  deeply  attached  to  old  scenes  and 
associations  one  incident  will  show.  We  were  on  the  steamer  bound 
for  Boston  and  were  talking  over  "old  times"  when,  after  a  moment  of 
silence,  "Jinks"  looked  up  and,  with  an  indescribable  sadness  in  his 
voice,  said,  "Ordway,  I  would  rather  have  one  of  my  old  'mooley'  cows 

244 


at  B than  the  whole  of  Boston."     This  hrief  sentence  tells  the  story 

of  his  attachments. — K.  S.  Ordway. 


MY  POCKETBOOK. 

Nearly  everyone  possesses  some  kind  of  a  pocketbook.  whether  he 
has  any  use  for  it  or  not.  In  a  city  a  purse  is  man's  constant  com- 
panion and.  therefore,  it  is  usually  a  good  index  of  his  life,  showing 
whether  he  is  busy  or  idle,  prosperous  or  unfortunate. 

My  purse  was  the  Christmas  gift  of  a  friend  last  year,  and  for 
almost  twelve  months  it  has  been  in  constant  use.  It  is  a  ladies'  com- 
bination pocketbook  and  card-case,  about  five  inches  long  and  three 
wide.  The  outside  is  of  fine-grained  brown  leather,  which  is  said  to 
be  the  skin  of  a  monkey.  Originally  two  sterling  silver  mountings  of 
Florentine  design  decorated  the  corners  of  the  card-case.  One  was 
lost  recently,  and  only  a  clean  place  on  the  leather  remains.  However, 
it  is  evidently  missed,  for  its  companion  piece  is  about  to  follow. 

The  inside  is  made  of  smooth  brown  leather,  which  has  grown  very 
shabby  from  constant  friction.  The  card-case  contains  a  half  dozen 
calling  cards,  between  which  are  those  tiny  squares  of  tissue  paper 
which  are  always  in  evidence  wherever  one  tries  to  make  a  fashionable 
call.  The  three  open  compartments  are  actually  bursting  at  the  sides 
on  account  of  their  bulky  contents.  In  one  are  two  commutation 
tickets  on  two  suburban  railroads.  The  worth  of  these  far  exceeds 
their  face  values  because  of  the  feeling  of  security  which  they  afford 
the  shopper  when  she  spends  her  last  five-cent  piece  in  the  city,  nine 
miles  from  home.  A  money-order  receipt  for  $1.50  is  a  source  of 
satisfaction,  for  it  tells  me  that  my  subscription  to  The  Northwestern 
;.  A  bunch  of  silk  samples  mutely  speaks  of  hours  of  vain  search 
fur  some  particular  shade  of  goods.  Into  the  very  corner  of  another 
compartment  an  unused  postage  stamp  is  tightly  glued.  The  kind  face 
of  the  Father  of  his  Country  grows  positively  satanic  whenever  it  is 
the  only  stamp  within  reach  and  a  letter  must  be  mailed  immediately. 

The  third  compartment  is  filled  with  a  bulky  document  which 
proves  to  be  only  a  very  long  Christmas  shopping  list.  On  this  sheet 
of  paper  the  names  of  relatives  and  friends  are  found  with  hints  for 
suitable  gifts.  Through  most  of  these  lines  are  drawn,  which  seem  to 
re-echo  very  faintly  the  sighs  of  relief  given  when  each  article  was 
purchased. 

The  length  of  this  list  has  been  the  cause  of  the  collapse  of  the 

main  compartment  of  the  pocketbook,  the  one  for  money.     The  sight  of 

:  leather,  the  bent  silver  rims,  and  the  weakness  of  th2  once 

-    flasp  is,  indeed,  pathetic.     The  contrast  between  the  past  and 

the  present  is  strong.     Where  only  a  week  ago  crisp  bills  and  heal 

ver  filled  the  purse  to  overflowing,  we  now  see  three  pennies. 

It.  with  the  children.  I  were  to  make  a  Christmas  wish,  it  would 


probably  be  that  the  capacity  of  my  purse  might  again  be  tested,  but  a 
perverse  fate  would,  doubtless,  bestow  upon  me  only  another  empty 
purse.— Amy  Hedwig  Olgen. 


COLONEL  MONTAGUE. 

Picture  a  Scotchman,  about  sixty  years  of  age,  of  medium  build, 
straight  as  a  shingle,  handsome,  with  light  hair,  tinged  with  red,  with 
sandy  whiskers,  neatly  trimmed  to  a  point,  with  blue  eyes,  with  a 
somewhat  florid  complexion,  and  you  have  a  not  indefinite  idea  of 
Colonel  Montague,  whose  soldierly  step  invariably  causes  the  stranger 
to  look  around  and  ask,  "Who  is  that  man?" 

There  is  no  sham  about  Colonel  Montague.  His  title  is  not  merely 
complimentary,  but  has  been  earned  by  honest  service  in  the  war. 
Everything  about  the  man  is  genuine,  from  the  bottom  of  his  finely 
polished  shoes  to  the  top  of  his  hat.  And  there  is  not  a  better  dressed 
man  in  town.  Yet  it  takes  but  a  glance  to  notice  that  there  is  an 
infinite  diiference  between  the  dress  of  Colonel  Montague  and  that  of 
the  dude.  But  if  one  were  asked  to  distinguish  definitely  between  the 
two  types  of  dress  it  would  not  be  an  easy  task.  Certainly,  if  the  same 
kind  of  clothes  were  worn  by  another  man,  that  man  could  not  escape 
the  uncomplimentary  epithet. 

To  be  polite,  particularly  to  the  ladies,  is  as  natural  to  him  as  it 
is  to  eat.  This,  coupled  with  his  superabundance  of  wit,  makes  him  a 
charming  entertainer. 

A  few  moments'  talk  with  him  is  sufficient  for  one  to  discover  that 
he  is  a  scholar  of  no  mean  ability.  It  would  be  hard  to  find  a  uni- 
versity graduate  that  uses  as  perfect  language.  On  matters  of  state, 
travel,  history  or  literature  he  can  hold  one  spellbound  by  the  hour. 
But,  perhaps,  he  is  at  his  best  when  reading  Shakespeare.  Such  a 
happy  combination  of  rare  talents  makes  him  much  sought  after  for 
entertainments,  where  he  is  always  the  lion  of  the  hour. 

He  is  a  lawyer,  of  course,  and  when  he  really  is  in  earnest  he 
rarely  loses  a  case.  His  personality  so  captivates  the  court  that  it  is 
not  a  case  of  whether  the  defendant  wins  or  loses,  but  whether  Col. 
Montague  is  successful  or  not.  One  wonders  why  such  a  wonderful 
man  has  not  become  a  supreme  judge,  a  foreign  ambassador,  or  some 
other  great  man,  until  he  discovers  his  weakness. 

It  is  the  same  old  story.  Drink  has  swallowed  up  his  handsome 
fortune:  through  drink  he  has  had  to  leave  the  army,  where  he  was  a 
profound  strategist;  and  drink  is  slowly  but  surely  leaving  its  mark 
on  his  constitution  and  his  handsome  face. 

Yet  no  one  can  appreciate  more  than  the  Colonel  what  an  awful 
injury  this  habit  has  done,  and  is  yet  to  do  to  him.  At  the  same  time 
no  one  can  comprehend  so  well  as  the  drunkard  himself  the  strength 
of  the  chains  that  bind  him.     To  one  who  can  appreciate  the  condition 

24« 


of  such  a  man  it  is  Indeed  pitiful  to  see  him,  in  a  moment  of  weakness, 
yield  at  last  to  the  temptation  that  he  has  heen  resisting  for  months, 
which  sometimes  lengthen  into  years.  One  taste  and  not  a  soul  on 
earth  can  stop  him.  His  hlood  is  on  fire;  his  clothes  show  neglect; 
his  shoulders  take  on  a  stoop;  his  eyes  and  face  are  bloodshot.  He 
is  now  on  a  spree  that  will  last  for  weeks,  varying  more  or  less  accord- 
ing to  the  length  of  his  abstinence.  During  this  time  all  business  is  at 
an  end. 

In  short.  Col.  Montague  is  one  of  a  certain  type  of  brilliant  men 
who  are  doomed  to  a  life  of  obscurity  because  of  the  greatest  common 
curse  of  the  nations. — R.  W.  E.  Summerville. 

MY  COZY  CORNER. 

i 
My  cozy  corner  occupies  a  niche,  about  four  feet  wide  and  seven 
feet  long,  between  two  diagonally  opposite  doors.  The  lounge,  which 
just  fits  comfortably  into  the  space,  is  covered  by  a  throw  of  a  striped 
Persian  design  in  a  combination  of  dark  blue,  red  and  old  gold.  A  roll 
at  the  head  of  the  couch  is  almost  concealed  by  a  conglomeration  of 
pillows,  the  position  of  which  resembles  that  of  several  girls  with 
their  arms  affectionately  around  each  other  and  their  heads  tossed  to 
one  side.  Four  and-a-half  feet  above  the  lounge,  and  extending  around 
the  corner,  is  a  mahogany  shelf  supported  by  three  bronze  brackets. 
On  the  shelf,  above  the  head  of  the  lounge,  are  three  small  volumes  of 
uniform  size,  "The  Vicar  of  Wakefield,"  "Cranford,"  and  "A  Chord 
from  a  Violin."  Leaning  against  them  is  a  photograph  of  our  pastor 
and  near  by  is  a  Venetian  wine  bottle.  Around  the  corner,  on  the 
part  of  the  shelf  above  the  side  of  the  couch,  are  Lawrence  Hutton's 
two  books  entitled  "Literary  Landmarks  of  Venice"  and  "Literary 
Landmarks  of  Florence."  Near  them  is  one  of  those  vases  whose  lower 
part  is  ludicrously  fat  while  its  neck  is  long  and  thin.  Close  to  this 
artless  object  is  a  graceful  little  delft  vase,  in  which  is  a  bunch  of 
Edelweis.  A  colored  picture  of  a  cathedral  window,  mounted  in  a 
tiny  black  frame,  rests  against  a  morocco  bound  volume  of  Whittier's 
poems.  Past  the  middle  of  the  shelf  is  a  Cambridge  University  cup 
and  on  the  end  are  more  books,  some  standing  erect,  others  reclining, 
and  one,  whose  worm-eaten  cover  shows  it  to  be  aged,  apparently  has 
a  good  excuse  for  lying  down.  In  the  corner  formed  by  the  junction  of 
the  two  rarts  of  the  shelf  is  a  rose  bowl  filled  with  pink  and  white 
asters,  which  seem  to  be  peeking  over  the  edge  of  the  shelf,  looking 
wistfully  at  the  pillows  below  as  if  wishing  to  rest  their  weary  heads 
on  the  soft  clown.  Above  the  shelf,  on  the  end  wall,  is  a  picture  of 
(  hrlst  and  John  in  a  gilt  frame  with  a  black  mat.  Along  the  side  wall 
are  Swiss  scenes.  One  large  frame  contains  three  views  of  the  Alps. 
To  the  right  of  this  is  another  Alpine  scene,  that  of  the  Matterhorn, 
while  to  the  left  is  a  view  of  the  Bay  of  Naples  with  Mt.  Vesuvius  in 
the  distance.     Below  the  shelf,  on  the  end  wall,  is  a  picture  of  the  Cas- 


tie  of  Chillon  and  a  snap-shot  of  my  eight-months-old  niece,  sitting  in 
a  large  chair  in  the  library,  pondering  over  Dante's  "Divine  Comedy." 
A  Venetian  scene  with  a  gondola  in  the  foreground  and  St.  Mark's  in 
the  background  is  across  the  corner,  directly  underneath  the  asters. 
Hanging  at  various  intervals  along  the  side  wall  are  pictures  of  cathe- 
drals and  landscapes.  Each  differs  from  the  others  in  shape  and  size 
and  each  is  framed  in  various  combinations  of  colors.  If  one  questions 
the  comfort  of  this  cozy  corner  he  need  only  look  near  the  foot  of 
the  lounge  at  the  maltese  and  white  pussy  curled  up  for  a  nap  on  the 
bright  red  Roman  slumber-robe,  the  color  of  which  she  is  well  aware 
is  very  becoming  to  her  style  of  beauty. — Ida  F.  Wright. 


A  PICTURE. 


The  large  painting  of  "Christ  before  Pilate"  is  exhibited  in  Phila- 
delphia. When  one  first  enters  the  room  in  which  it  hangs  the  picture 
looks  like  a  great  blotch  of  color,  but  as  one  gets  closer  the  separate 
figures  in  the  background  and  in  the  foreground  stand  out  in  bold 
relief.    No  two  faces  are  alike;    each  one  is  a  study  in  itself. 

The  room  which  the  painter  has  depicted  is  evidently  the  space 
adjoining  the  judgment  hall.  It  is  a  dim  and  shadowy  cloistered  gal- 
lery, upheld  by  massive  carved  pillars;  between  these  pillars,  in  the  far 
distance,  against  the  brilliant  blue  of  the  sky,  the  hilly  country  beyond 
Jerusalem  can  be  seen.  The  judgment  seat  is  raised  three  or  four 
steps  from  the  floor,  beyond  an  alcove  ornamented  with  pilasters  of 
ebony,  on  which  are  carved  the  letters  "S.  P.  Q.  R."  There  is  a  dim, 
uncertain  light  over  the  whole  that  makes  the  white  faces  in  the  back- 
ground stand  out  with  horrible  distinctness.  Raised  above  all  the 
curious,  cruel  and  vicious  men  is  the  figure  of  a  beautiful  Jewish 
woman,  holding  a  child  in  her  arms.  Her  face  is  expressive  of 
unspoken  sympathy;  her  large,  tearful  eyes  are  fixed  on  Christ  with 
a  look  of  perfect  devotion. 

The  light  in  the  foreground  falls  directly  on  the  steel  casque  worn 
by  a  Roman  guard,  his  yellowish  brown  coat,  half  off  his  shoulders, 
showing  his  brawny,  naked  arm.  Standing  beside  the  guard,  in  a 
short,  ragged  tunic  of  dirty  white,  is  a  little  Arabian  boy,  his  dark, 
peculiar  face  a  study  in  amazement  and  curiosity,  as  he  watches  a  large 
Israelite  by  his  side.  This  man's  arms  are  raised  high  in  the  air,  his 
large  mouth  open  to  its  fullest  extent,  and  his  whole  face  indicative  of 
vicious  brutality.  The  priests  are  conspicuous  for  their  rich,  many- 
colored  garments.  Some  sit  in  a  group  by  the  wall,  listening  and 
making  shrewd  comments  to  one  another.  One  stands  on  the  stairs; 
his  face,  for  its  utter  lack  of  expression,  might  be  carved  out  of  bronze. 
Caiaphas,  in  a  gown  of  rich,  deep  colors,  stands  on  the  lowest  step,  his 
face  raised  to  Pilate,  his  finger  pointing  in  derision  at  Christ.  His 
attitude  of  concentrated  hate  and  contempt  is  superb.    In  the  judgment 

248 


seat,  raised  far  above  the  others,  is  Pilate.  His  large,  troubled  eyes, 
under  their  heavy  brows,  his  hands  nervously  pressed  together,  the 
anxiety  evident  in  his  whole  position,  show  that  he  does  not  know  how 
to  decide. 

And  down  below,  in  the  very  foreground,  is  Christ.  His  robe  is  of 
spotless  white.  His  fragile  hands  are  bound.  His  head  is  partly  raised, 
with  long  hair,  slightly  waved,  and  parted  in  the  middle,  brown  in 
tint  with  a  tendency  to  gold  where  most  strongly  touched  by  the  sun. 
The  eyes  are  dark-blue  and  large;  they  gaze  through  rather  than  at 
Pilate,  as  if  He  were  more  concerned  with  the  mental  conflict  through 
which  His  judge  is  passing  than  with  the  result  as  affecting  Himself. 
He  is  the  "Master  of  man"  because  He  is,  what  no  other  man  present 
is,  the  master  of  Himself.  And  in  His  sad  and  sorrowful  face  can 
be  read  the  words,  "He  is  despised  and  rejected  of  men,  a  man  of  sor- 
rows and  acquainted  with  grief." — Jeannette  Foster. 


MY  BROTHER'S  CART. 

At  the  back  of  our  house  there  is  a  little  door  which  opens  into  a 
hole  under  the  "lean-to."  For  the  most  part  this  cubby-hole  is  filled 
with  kindling-wood  and  old  barrels,  leaving  an  open  space  only  a  few 
feet  wide,  in  which  the  subject  of  my  sketch  is  kept  when  not  in  use. 
Do  not  imagine  that  this  cart  is  a  highly-colored  "boughten"  affair, 
for  it  is  not.  It  is  strictly  home-made.  It  is  six  feet  long  by  two  feet 
wide,  and  rises  fourteen  inches  from  the  ground,  with  the  exception  of 
one  sagging  corner  where  the  wheel  is  loose. 

The  floor  is  made  of  three  long  five-inch  matched  pine  boards,  and 
is  bolted  to  the  back  axle;  it  passes  above  the  small  front  wheels  and 
is  fastened  to  the  top  of  a  tool-box,  to  which  the  front  axle  is  swiveled. 
If  you  look  closely  at  the  under-side  of  the  floor  you  can  trace  the  faint 
letters  "Mason  and  Hamlin,  Upright  Pianos."  What  a  "come-down" 
for  an  upright  piano  box!  The  upper  side  of  these  boards  has  been 
neatly  planed,  and  the  long  sides  are  finished  off  with  a  quarter- 
round.  The  front  edge  is  trimmed  with  a  narrow  strip  of  zinc,  in  the 
middle  of  which  is  tacked  the  steel  plate  from  a  messenger  boy's  cap. 
This  plate  bears  in  sunken  black  figures  the  enigmatic  number  "1731." 

The  back  wheels,  it  is  quite  evident,  belonged  to  a  bicycle  in  the 
days  of  narrow  rims.  The  rubber  tires  have  been  worn  off,  leaving 
only  the  rusty  steel  rims.  The  axle  on  which  these  wheels  revolve 
looks  as  if  it  were  a  part  of  Professor  A.'s  old  baby-carriage.  One 
axle-nut  being  missing,  the  wheel  wobbles  perceptibly.  From  all 
appearances  the  front  wheels  and  axle  came  from  a  real  express 
wagon,  but  now  they  are  badly  worn,  and  when  I  push  the  cart  they 
grate  harshly. 

Near  the  front  of  the  cart,  just  above  the  axle,  is  an  opening  in 
the  floor.     If  you  pull  out  the  little  stick  under  those  two  staples,  the 

249 


board  that  covers  this  hole  can  be  turned  back  on  its  brass  hinge,  dis- 
closing the  inside  of  the  tool-box,  which  is  divided  into  three  sections. 
On  the  outside  of  this  box  are  the  words  "Horse  Shoe  Nails,  No.  8,"  but 
in  it  you  will  find  only  a  few  tacks,  some  old  screws,  a  coil  of  picture- 
wire,  two  washers,  a  nut,  a  pair  of  pliers,  some  cracker  crumbs  and 
an  empty  oil-can. 

Between  the  back  wheels,  above  the  floor,  is  another  box;  this  is 
the  seat.  It  is  made  of  better  wood  than  the  rest  of  the  cart,  and  i3, 
in  fact,  an  ordinary  six-pound  silver-gloss  starch-box,  with  the  lid  01. 

The  handle  of  the  cart  is  a  long,  closely-woven  dirty-white  rope, 
which  looks  very  much  as  if  it  might  have  been  a  part  of  the  very 
clothes-line  that  hangs  on  a  nail  in  the  laundry.  The  ends  of  this  rope 
are  passed  through  whittled  "auger-holes"  in  each  side  of  the  floor 
of  the  cart,  a  few  inches  back  of  the  front  axle,  to  which  they  are  tie  1. 
This  line  is  never  used  to  draw  the  wagon,  but  the  boy  on  the  starch- 
box  uses  it  to  'steer  the  automobile,"  while  that  other  boy  with  his 
feet  hanging  off  the  back  of  the  cart  furnishes  the  mo':ive  power. — 
Elizabeth  Bronson. 


A   QUEER   LITTLE   BOOK  SHELF. 

The  shelf  itself  is  of  simple  oak,  with  no  attempt  at  decora':"o~i; 
but,  although  so  unpretentious  and  although  fastened  directly  oppo- 
site a  handsome  case  well  filled  with  beautiful  volumes,  it  is  not 
ashamed;  for  is  it  not  honored  by  holding  the  owner's  particular 
literary  treasures? 

Suppose  we  look  at  them,  displayed  in  picturesque  variety,  with- 
out regard  to  size  or  color.  The  first  volume  is  bound  in  faded  gresn 
covers.  The  corners  are  turned  over,  and  here  the  gray  paper  shows 
through  the  cloth  of  the  binding,  for  the  book  is  a  little  worn.  In 
fact,  you  cannot  read  the  tarnished  gold  letters  on  the  back  unless 
you  step  nearer.     It  is  "Lorna  Doone." 

From  across  the  room  you  can  tell  that  the  next  volume  is  Dickens. 
It  is  such  a  fat,  jolly-looking  book.  When  you  notice  that  it  contains 
"David  Copperfield"  and  "Nicholas  Nickleby"  bound  together,  you  can 
almost  see  Ham  Pegotty  and  the  Cheeryble  brothers  peeping  over  the 
top.  Next  to  this  refreshing  piece  of  literature  is  a  book  in  gray  cov- 
ers decorated  with  a  spray  of  pine  needles.  It  is  a  simple,  child's 
story  translated  from  the  German;  "The  Story  of  Heidi."  A  cherry 
stain  on  the  cover  shows  that  this  book  has  seen  good  service,  for  it 
has  evidently  been  its  owner's  companion  "from  youth  up."  A  more 
vivid  contrast  to  this  book  could  scarcely  be  found  than  its  next 
neighbor,  a  small,  thin  volume  bound  in  scarlet  with  quaint,  conven- 
tional designs  in  gold.  It  looks  somewhat  lost  between  its  two  larger 
companions,  and  yet,  to  the  owner's  eye,  it  stands  out  with  distinct 
individuality.  It  is  the  "Rubaiyat  of  Omar  Khayyam."  You  do  not 
need  to  look  at  the  words  on  the  back  of  the  next  book,  bound  in  gay 

250 


Scottish  plaid,   to   know  that  it   is  a  copy  of  Burns's  "Poems."     This, 
with   its  next   neighbor,   a   copy  of   Kenneth   Graham's   little  sketches, 
entitled  "The  Golden  Age."  prettily  bound  in  yellow  and  silver,  form  a 
bright  bit  of  color  among  their  more  somber  companions.     The  next  is 
a   ponderous-looking  volume,  which  your  imagination  compares  to  an 
old  man  looking  at  you  over  his  glasses  fiercely,  and  yet  with  a  little 
twinkle  in  his  eye.     And  perhaps  the  comparison  is  not  far  out  of  the 
way,  for  the  book  is  "Vanity  Fair."    Almost  affectionately,  as  though  in 
perfect  confidence,  a  small  dark-red  book  stands  close  to  "Vanity  Fair." 
It   seems   an   odd   companionship,    for   the    little   book   is   Van   Dyke's 
exquisite  "Story  of  the  Other  Wise  Man."     The  next  is  by  far  the  hand- 
somest book  on  the  shelf,  a  beautiful  copy  of  Tennyson's  poems,  an 
Edition  de  Luxe,  with  a  rich  binding  of  dark  green  and  gold,  which 
seems  to  give  promise  of  still  greater  richness  within.     Jostling  up 
against  this  magnificence  is — "0  breathe  it  not  in  Ascalon" — "Alice  in 
Wonderland."     I  grieve  to  tell  it,  but  so  it  is,  bound  in  glaring  red, 
with   a   picture   of  Alice  on  the  cover,  thus  adding  insult  to  injury. 
There  are  two  more  books  on  the  shelf,  and  although  I  am  sure  that 
by   this   time   you   are    sitting  resignedly,    ready   to   be  astonished   at 
nothing,  I  fancy  that  there  is  at  least  one  more  surprise  in  store  for 
you;     for  next  to  Alice,  thereby  making  her  seem   still   more   incon- 
gruous, is  a  copy  of  the  Odes  of  Horace,  not  in  poetical  translation, 
but  in  unadulterated  Latin.     Last — and  this    betrays    unquestionably 
the  sex  of  the  owner — is  "Little  Women,"  and  this  ends  what  is  surely 
an  odd  assortment  of  literature,  although  perhaps  it  is  not  such  a  bad 
one;    and  I  hope  that,  although  you  may  indulge  in  some  amusement, 
you  will  not  indulge  in  ridicule  at  the  expense  of  the  queer  little  book- 
shelf.— Ruth  Crandon. 


CAPTAIN  JOHN  SMITH. 

Nearly  every  town  has  a  character  who  is  known  and  quoted  far 
and  wide.  In  this  respect  Evanston  is  not  an  exception;  for  Evanston 
is  the  home  of  Captain  Smith. 

Unlike  his  colonial  ancestor,  our  friend  is  a  large  man.  He  is 
somewhat  more  than  six  feet  tall,  and  appears  to  be  proportionally 
heavy.  His  face  is  peculiar,  and  does  not  seem  to  match  his  body. 
His  nose  is  large,  and  is  generally  pointed  upward,  as  if  the  owner 
wished  to  keep  that  part  of  his  physiognomy  as  far  away  from  the 
pavement  as  possible.  His  eyes  are  small  and  bright,  and  there  is  a 
peculiar  expression  of  self-consciousness  about  them.  His  mouth  is 
wide,  and  his  lips  are  compressed  in  a  way  which  shows  great  sternness 
or  an  attempt  to  hold  his  false  teeth  in  place. 

Although  his  face  is  odd,  his  clothes  distinguish  him  more  than 
anything  else.  I  have  seen  him  in  three  different  suits,  and  have 
never  been  able  to  decide  which  of  them  fits  him  worst.     The  first  is 

•>:,  i 


the  light  gray  uniform  of  a  policeman.  The  coat  is  very  large,  and  is 
adorned  with  the  customary  brass  buttons.  The  helmet  which  belongs 
to  this  uniform  is  very  old  and  battered  and  looks  as  if  it  would  be 
just  the  thing  to  put  over  a  brick  on  the  first  of  April.  The  second 
suit  is  supposedly  that  of  a  soldier.  It  is  made  of  dark  blue  cloth  with 
buttons  smaller  than  those  of  a  policeman's  uniform,  and  instead  of  a 
helmet  there  is  a  slouched  hat.  The  brim  is  generally  pulled  well 
down  over  the  eyes,  giving  the  wearer  a  fierce  appearance.  When  the 
captain  wears  his  third  suit  he  looks  like  a  walking  rag  pile.  I  would 
like  to  tell  you  what  the  original  color  of  this  suit  was,  but  I  have 
never  been  able  to  decide. 

These  clothes  are  remarkable,  but  they  are  no  queerer  than  the 
captain's  boots.  Captain  Kidd  would  have  been  conceited  if  he  could 
have  possessed  such  foot-gear.  The  tops  of  these  boots  are  so  wide  that 
they  suggest  piracy  and  all  sorts  of  bloody  crimes.  One  instinctively 
looks  to  see  if  he  can  not  catch  sight  of  some  deadly  weapon  protruding 
from  them.  He  is  disappointed,  for  the  only  weapon  which  our  friend 
carries  is  a  heavy  club,  which  looks  as  if  it  might  have  served  as  a 
dray-pin.  This  formidable-looking  stick  is  not  a  weapon  of  offence, 
but  merely  the  insignia  of  office. 

You  need  not  be  afraid  of  the  captain.  He  looks  fierce,  but  is  really 
very  peaceable.  He  imagines  that  he  is  a  guardian  of  the  city  and  that 
if  it  were  not  for  him  the  town  would  be  stolen  bodily.  Having 
appointed  himself  Lord  High  Protector  of  Evanston,  his  dignity  is  in 
keeping  with  his  office. 

His  walk  is  slow  and  majestic,  and  one  has  but  to  look  at  him  to 
see  how  important  he  is  in  his  own  eyes.  To  the  jeers  and  banters  of 
small  boys  he  pays  no  attention,  but  stalks  by  as  if  unaware  of  their 
existence.  He  will  always  salute  a  policeman  in  the  most  military 
manner,  and  will  answer  a  salute  from  anyone. 

All  these  peculiarities  are  easily  explained.  The  old  fellow  really 
thinks  himself  to  be  the  largest  man  in  the  world.  In  reality  he  is 
slender,  but  he  has  his  clothes  made  a  few  dozen  sizes  too  large,  and 
then  stuffs  the  empty  space  with  any  available  material.  In  summer, 
when  the  weather  is  hot,  he  becomes  very  thin,  but  when  autumn  comes 
on  he  gradually  expands  like  a  balloon  which  is  being  inflated. 

He  allows  no  one  to  question  his  size,  but  he  asks  people  to  take  a 
tape  and  measure  and  to  convince  themselves  that  he  is  the  largest 
man  the  world  has  ever  known  from  the  time  of  Goliath  to  the  great 
Irish  giant.  The  old  man  thinks  that,  being  the  largest  man  in  the 
world,  he  is  also  the  most  powerful.  Now,  what  is  more  natural  than 
to  appoint  the  strongest  man  in  town  to  look  after  the  public  welfare? 
Having  reasoned  all  this  out  he  goes  about  performing  the  duties  of 
his  office  to  his  own  and  everyone's  satisfaction. 

I,  for  one,  am  glad  that  we  have  such  a  large  and  powerful 
guardian  of  the  peace,  and  I  wish  him  long  life  and  happiness  in  the 
discharge  of  his  duties. — William  Heilman. 


A    LONELY  GRAVE   IN   Al'Tl'MN. 

"Far  from  the  busy  haunts  of  men."  this  western  spot  is  always 
lonely,  even  in  spring,  when  the  hi  ids  peal  forth  their  gay  notes,  and 
flowers  ar<  springing  into  life.  But  who  can  describe  its  utter  desola- 
tion in  melancholy  autumn? 

Off  to  the  north  and  east,  as  far  as  eye  can  see,  extend  the  broad 
lands  of  the  Dakotas,  "billowy  hays  of  grass,  ever  rolling  in  shadow 
and  sunshine,"  as  the  October  wind  hlows  the  clouds  across  the  sun. 
Here  and  there  a  tiny  black  square  indicates  an  attempt  at  farming. 
To  the  south  are  more  prairies,  broken  by  an  occasional  solitary  dwell- 
ing, while  farther  off,  like  a  series  of  dim  blue  turrets  and  towers 
against  the  horizon,  lies  one  of  Dakota's  cities.  About  half  a  mile  west 
is  a  small  white  school-house,  and  two  miles  beyond,  the  little  village 
of  Hand,  a  mere  group  of  half  a  dozen  buildings. 

With  the  prairies  on  all  sides  as  described,  covering  several  acres 
is  a  field,  once  cultivated  and  yielding  corn,  but  now  overgrown  with 
the  rank  vegetation  which  flourishes  in  the  dry  soil  of  the  western 
States.  Here  and  there  a  few  stalks,  from  which  the  wind  has  long 
since  torn  husk  and  silk,  protrude  through  the  luxuriant  weeds.  A 
wagon-road,  leading  from  some  Indian  Reservation,  perhaps,  extends 
along  the  north  side  of  the  field,  running  past  the  school-house,  through 
the  village,  and  off  to  the  next  reservation.  Within  this  field,  about 
forty  feet  from  the  road,  sunken  so  low  as  to  be  almost  on  a  level  with 
the  ground,  and  attracting  attention  only  by  the  fence  that  surrounds 
it.  is  the  grave, — a  baby's  grave  evidently,  judging  from  its  diminu- 
tive dimensions.  No  head-stone  or  even  simple  pine  board  marks  the 
place,  revealing  the  name  of  the  occupant  of  the  narrow  house.  Nor  is 
there  a  single  trace  of  tame  shrubbery.  But  nature  has  done  her 
duty.  Tumble-weeds,  piled  one  on  top  of  another,  cling  to  the  fence  as 
though  to  protect  the  tiny  mound  from  the  chill  autumn  wind  and 
from  the  snows  that  will  soon  drift  the  furrows.  Coarse  parsley  and 
pig-weed  and  timothy  fill  the  space  between  the  fence  and  the  grave, 
and  a  wild  rose-bush,  whose  dainty  petals  have  fled  with  the  summer, 
thrusts  its  scarlet  berries  between  the  wooden  bars.  The  fierce  sun, 
unable  to  bring  forth  foliage  on  the  mound  itself,  has  parched  and 
baked  the  brown  earth  until  it  has  split  open,  forming  a  dozen  deep 
cracks.  Here  the  ants,  their  natural  industry  as  they  move  in  and  out 
forming  a  strange  contrast  with  the  dead  silence  of  the  grave,  have 
chosen  to  make  their  winter  home.     Some  cows,  ranging  the  field  for 

I,  pause  to  thrust  their  heads  over  th<-  bars  and  nibble  the  dry 
timothy.  A  sparrow  lights  on  the  decayed  fence  and  chirps  his  farewell 
ere  he  wings  his  way  to  the  Sunny  South.  Amid  his  solitary  sur- 
roundings the  fair  sleeper  awaits,  alone,  the  final  resurrection.— Wini- 
fred Chappell. 


2o.i 


MY  OLD  UMBRELLA. 

My  old  umbrella  stands  there  in  the  corner,  a  mere  wreck  of  its 
former  self.  In  place  of  the  new,  trim-looking  figure  of  former  days, 
there  it  is,  only  a  dilapidated,  broken-down  frame.  The  size  is  not 
exactly  in  keeping  with  the  style  of  the  day;  this  umbrella  was  evi- 
dently intended  to  accommodate  more  than  one  person.  Once  it  stood 
up  straight  and  trim,  like  a  young  soldier  starting  out  to  battle,  but 
now,  alas,  the  rod  is  so  bent  that  it  resembles  the  old  soldier  coming 
home  after  a  long,  hard  campaign.  If  I  were  to  endeavor  to  open  it  I 
fear  there  would  be  a  groan,  since  the  ribs  are  so  entwined;  while 
some  even  have  the  appearance  of  floating  ribs.  It  looks  neglected 
and  sad  and  as  if  it  wished  to  be  young  again.  It  has  an  air  of  utter 
desperation,  for  now  no  one  has  any  use  for  it,  and  its  place  is  in  the 
darkest  corner  of  the  closet,  instead  of  out  in  the  hall,  where  it  has 
passed  so  many  happy  hours. 

The  traces  of  many  summers  and  winters  are  distinctly  left  on 
the  silk.  That  bright  blue  is  faded  to  a  dingy  color;  there  are  streaks 
down  each  side,  where  streams  of  water  have  trickled  along.  Between 
the  ribs  are  great  rents  and  small  round  holes,  proclaiming  the  age  of 
the  material. 

The  handle  is  indeed  interesting  and  suggestive.  That  very  same 
handle  has^  probably  been  fastened  to  a  great  number  of  umbrellas 
before  this  one,  and  to  all  appearances  it  may  even  be  used  for  more. 
Those  scratches  seem  to  be  an  essential  part  of  the  umbrella  and  not 
ugly  nicks;  without  them  my  old  umbrella  would  lack  a  great  part 
of  its  value.  The  hands  that  carved  some  of  those  initials  are  far 
from  here  now,  and  naught  but  sweet  memories  remain. 

See  that  stain!  The  minister  borrowed  my  umbrella  one  day 
when  he  called  and  a  storm  came  up;  his  little  son  was  allowed  to 
play  tent  with  it,  and  he  in  some  way  stained  it.  My  little  brother 
played  horse  with  it,  and  bent  the  pole  in  that  manner.  This  place, 
where  it  has  been  mended,  was  torn  years  ago.  See  how  nicely  my 
grandmother  mended  it!  That  piece  of  paper  there  on  the  rod  is  a 
curious  relic.  If  you  will  examine  it  closely  you  will  see  that  it  is  a 
piece  of  a  postage  stamp  whose  mark  is  Salem,  Massachusetts,  October 
first,  eighteen  hundred  and  nine.  How  that  came  to  be  there  I  can 
not  say,  unless  it  was  caught  up  in  a  bundle  of  papers  in  my  grand- 
mother's attic.  As  with  so  many  unfortunate  umbrellas  the  top  is  broken 
off  half  way  up.  In  spite  of  these  defects  I  shall  try  to  keep  this 
umbrella  as  one  of  my  choicest  relics. — Mabel  V.  Ferris. 


THE   OLD   MILL. 

The  summer's  sun  is  about  two  hours  high;  the  grass  is  fresh  from 
its  dewy  bath,  and  a  small  stream  sparkles  gaily  in  the  morning  light. 
All  nature  stands  forth  with  the  vigor  of  new-  life.     In  the  midst  of 

254 


these  surroundings  stands  an  old  mill,  whose  wrinkled,  faded   features 
make  a  strong  contrast  with  the  brightness  of  its  setting. 

it  stands  in  a  quiet  country  valley.  A  winding  road  descends  from 
a  hill  on  the  north,  half  encircles  the  mill,  and  is  lost  to  view  among 
the  hills  to  the  south.  To  the  west  is  a  peaceful  expanse  of  water, 
rimmed  with  white  water  lilies.  Behind  this  stands  a  hank  of  wooded 
hills.  A  noisy  stream  leaps  out  of  the  pond.  and.  clashing  over  huge 
stones,  winds  its  way  through  a  deep  ravine,  and  is  lost  to  view  in  a  hit 
of  timher  on  the  east.  The  water  still  flows  through  the  mill-race, 
which  runs  from  the  pond,  although  the  mill  has  ceased  to  play  an 
active  part  in  neighborhood  affairs,  for  the  wheel  is  gone. 

The  building  stands  east  and  west  and  faces  the  road  with  a  full 
broadside.  It  is  built  in  the  form  of  an  oblong  square  and  is  of  medium 
height.  It  has  a  sharp-peaked  roof,  and  its  sides  are  pierced  with 
small  windows,  whose  sashes  are  set  with  small,  square  panes  of  glass. 
In  a  word,  its  appearance  reminds  one  of  a  huge  Noah's  ark.  From  the 
north  side  a  shed-like  roof  projects  over  the  driveway  to  shelter  it  from 
the  storms.  But  this,  like  the  roof  of  the  mill,  is  old  and  decayed. 
The  shingles  are  warped,  mildewed,  and  scarred  with  moss,  while  here 
and  there  the  storms  have  broken  through.  Its  coat  is  of  faded  red 
and  it  shows  the  trace  of  years  of  storm  in  its  dull,  checked  surface. 
Like  an  old  face,  it  would  speak  through  a  new  coat  of  paint  and  say, 
"You  may  try  but  you  cannot  make  me  look  young  again."  It  is  fast 
crumbling  to  decay  and  seems  to  remind  one  of  the  old,  old  days  of  his 
grandfather's,  when  it  was  a  proud  landmark.  But  now  it  tries  to 
shrink  away  and  withdraw  itself,  as  if  it  were  conscious  of  its  departed 
glory  and  wished  to  avoid  thrusting  itself  upon  a  stranger's  sympa 
thies. 

The  old  mill  is  useless  now.  The  little  driveway  before  the  door  is 
overgrown  with  grass.  There  are  no  wheel-tracks  upon  it.  The 
fowls  wander  leisurely  and  unmolested  before  the  door,  which  seems 
to  have  been  untouched  for  years.  A  wagon,  loaded  with  grain,  rattles 
by.  It  would  be  useless  to  pause,  for  the  mill  cannot  grind  the  grain. 
There  it  stands  with  a  melancholy  look,  feeble  and  useless,  pushed  .off, 
like  an  aged  parent  by  his  heartless  children.  Thus  it  stands  by  the 
side  of  the  youthful  stream,  surrounded  by  the  bloom  of  early  sum- 
mer, a  sad  reminder  of  death  in  the  midst  of  life. — Geo.  W.  Briggs. 


MY    DAGGER. 


I  had  scarcely  completed  a  post-graduate  course  in College  when 

I  was  shocked  by  the  premature  death  of  my  father.  He  had  been  a 
good  father  to  me.  I  could  not  have  asked  that  he  treat  me  better.  But 
there  was  one  thing  I  could  not  understand.  We  were  prosperous,  hut 
money  did  not  come  to  me  for  the  asking.  On  the  contrary,  anything 
I  desired  must  be  bought  with  my  own  savings.  This,  I  say,  seemed 
strange  to  me.    My  father  was  not  miserly,  but  he  seemed  to  think  that 

255 


I  ought  to  provide  for  myself.  This  I  did.  But  what  was  my  surprise 
on  finding  at  his  death  that  I  was  the  only  heir  to  a  very  large  fortune. 
His  death  affected  me  so  much  that  I  scarcely  realized  what  it  meant 
to  be  a  millionaire.  But  things  were  soon  to  happen  that  would  help 
me  to  understand. 

Early  in  life  I  had  decided  to  be  a  bachelor.  To  this  idea  I  still 
clung,  and  as  a  bachelor  I,  of  course,  had  many  hobbies.  Now  that  I 
was  fatherless  I  spent  a  great  portion  of  my  time  collecting  souvenirs. 
My  most  beautiful  and  extensive  collection  was  that  of  old  daggers. 
They  had  been  gathered  at  random  and  now  numbered  three  hundred 
and  eighteen.  I  wanted  more,  and  spent  many  hours  in  examining  odd 
stock  for  suitable  pieces.  I  became  very  much  interested  in  some  at 
one  of  our  best  stores,  and  scarcely  noticed  who  waited  upon  me.  On 
a  second  visit  the  harsh  voice  of  the  clerk  aroused  me,  and  I  glanced 
up  to  see  a  most  hideous  face.  His  nose  was  long  and  sharp,  his  eyes 
deep-set  and  coal-black,  his  forehead  low  and  receding;  but  to  enforce 
all  this  was  a  large  mouth,  upon  which  lingered  a  disagreeable  sneer. 
In  truth  he  looked  to  be  a  villain.  I  bought  my  dagger  and  started  for 
the  door,  but,  in  turning,  bumped  into  one  of  the  prettiest  ladies  I  had 
ever  seen.  I  apologized  and  went  out.  Two  days  later  I  was  surprised 
to  find  myself  again  standing  in  front  of  the  same  store.  They  surely 
had  a  fine  assortment  and  I  was  wondering  how  some  of  the  knives 
would  look  in  my  collection  when  I  felt  a  slight  pressure  on  my  arm. 
I  looked  up  to  find  the  pretty  lady  standing  next  to  me. 

"Excuse  me,"  she  said  in  a  sweet  little  voice,  "but  you  are  collect- 
ing weapons,  are  you  not?" 

I  nodded,  and  added  that  daggers  were  my  especial  hobby.  She 
told  me  that  she,  too,  was  collecting  daggers,  and  had  a  very  interesting 
assortment,  and  that  she  would  be  pleased  to  have  me  call  upon  her  the 
following  Wednesday.  At  the  appointed  day  I  arrived  at  her  rooms 
and  was  ushered  in.  But  in  passing  through  the  doors  I  noticed  a  num- 
ber of  bolts  and  strange  contrivances,  yet  all  this  did  not  make  me 
suspicious.  She  invited  me  to  take  a  seat,  and  pointed  out  a  heavy 
trunk,  which  she  said  contained  her  collection.  I  went  over  to  the 
corner  and  started  to  examine  the  box  when  I  heard  a  number  of  sharp 
clicks,  but  I  thought  that  the  noise  was  merely  something  in  the  hall. 
I  stooped  over  to  examine  the  carving  more  closely,  and  as  I  did  so,  I 
was  suddenly  seized  from  behind,  bound  and  gagged.  Over  me  stood 
the  villain  clerk.  His  eyes  flashed  fire  and  He  started  to  say  something 
when  the  pretty  lady  reappeared.  Alas!  she  was  no  longer  pretty. 
She,  too,  had  a  sneer,  and  came  upon  me  like  a  panther.  Both  hands 
were  behind  her,  but  suddenly  she  raised  one  arm,  which  grasped  a 
dagger,  and  swore  that  unless  I  signed,  a  check  immediately  for  $100,- 
000  she  would  kill  me. 

"This,  you  see,  sir,  is  my  odd  collection.  Doji't  you  think  it  pretty? 
Decide  and  decide  quickly." 

25H 


I  glanced  about  me.  The  doors  were  shut  and  bolted.  I  tried  to 
stream,  but  could  not.  She  hushed  me  by  pricking  me  just  above  the 
heart  with  her  dagger.  I  would  not  sign,  and  determined  to  make  a 
mad  rush  for  the  door.  I  reached  the  corner,  but  I  could  not  free  my 
hands.  Already  the  dagger  was  ready  to  fall.  Now  I  saw  it  about  to 
descend.     But  it  never  fell — because  I  awoke. — Harry  H.  Brown. 


A   SKULL  AND    CROSS-BONES. 

There  lies  on  the  top  of  my  book-case  an  object  which  has  never 
ceased  to  be  of  interest  to  me,  although  it  has  been  in  my  possession 
for  some  time.  This  object  is  a  human  skull  with  its  accompanying 
cross-bones.  A  glance  shows  that  this  is  no  plaster-of-paris  tobacco- 
jar  molded  into  the  shape  of  a  skull  but  the  genuine  bone  frame-work 
of  a  human  head.  Upon  looking  at  this  skull  the  first  thing  that  one 
notices  is  its  peculiar  color.  It  has  not  the  color  of  sun-dried  bone,  but 
it  is  as  black  as  if  it  had  been  smeared  with  ink.  But  this  peculiarity 
is  accounted  for  by  the  fact  that  the  skull  was  at  one  time  in  a  fire,  and 
although  not  burned  it  received  a  bad  scorching.  The  absence  of  a 
part  of  the  upper  jaw  next  attract  attention,  for  an  inch  of  it  and  the 
front  upper  teeth  are  missing.  The  bridge  of  the  nose  is  also  broken, 
showing  that  the  specimen  has  had  rough  usage.  These  imperfections 
give  the  features  a  battered  appearance  and  increase  the  grewsome 
expression  which  every  skull  exhibits. 

Viewed  from  above,  the  skull  displays  the  usual  bumps  and  depres- 
sions as  a  result  either  of  accident  or  growth.  More  noticeable  than 
these,  however,  is  a  round  hole,  nearly  half  an  inch  in  diameter,  show- 
ing the  bone  to  be  more  than  a  quarter  of  an  inch  thick.  It  is  easy  to 
imagine  possible  causes  for  this  hole.  For  the  opening  is  of  such  a 
nature  as  to  prove  either  that  the  owner  met  his  death  by  a  pistol-shot 
or  that  the  skull  has  been  drilled  for  scientific  investigation.  The  lat- 
ter is  the  more  plausible  suggestion,  for  the  hole  is  exactly  in  the  center 
of  the  crown  of  the  head,  while  from  it  start  out  the  sinuous  fissures. 
These  fissures,  which  show  howr  the  different  bones  of  the  head  have 
grown  and  knit  together,  are  very  distinct  and  resemble  more  than 
anything  else  the  coast-line  of  a  much  indented  shore  as  shown  on  a 
map. 

Closer  examination  of  the  jaw  shows  that  it  is  held  in  place  on 
either  side  by  a  small  wire  spring  fastened  above  at  the  temple  and 
below7  upon  the  jaw-bone.  Just  behind  the  place  wrhere  the  jaw  is 
pivoted,  a  slight  depression  and  hole,  the  size  of  a  pencil,  show  the 
position  of  the  ear.  The  teeth  seem  considerably  worn  down  and  two 
of  them  are  slightly  decayed,  but  none  show  any  signs  of  the  dentist's 
work. 

Looking  at  the  head  less  critically,  I  note  that  it  is  rather  small, 
and,  if  I  did  not  know  that  the  rest  of  the  skeleton  was  of  normal  size,  I 


might  think  that  it  was  the  head,  not  of  a  man,  but  of  a  child  or  youth. 
The  forehead  indicates  no  great  brain  power,  for  it  is  very  low  and 
receding.  The  brow,  however,  projects  very  noticeably  and  the  cheek- 
bones also  protrude. 

As  I  look  at  the  skull  and  note  these  peculiarities  I  often  wonder 
who  the  owner  could  have  been,  of  what  race,  and  why  his  bones  are 
not  lying  peacefully  in  some  tomb.  The  thought  always  comes  to  me 
of  the  French  prisons  and  the  "Reign  of  Terror"  and  I  wonder  if  this 
was  a  head  severed  from  its  body  by  the  guillotine.  Nor  is  this  entirely 
improbable,  for  the  skeletons  which  are  used  as  anatomical  models 
come  from  France,  and  this  skull  was  originally  a  part  of  one  of  these 
models. — C.  P.  McConnell.  ! 


A   SUNSET  AT  BLACK   LAKE. 

It  was  a  Sunday  afternoon  in  August  when  the  sky  was  darkened 
by  threatening  clouds,  which  scurried  hither  and  thither  across  the 
heavens,  until  finally  they  merged  into  one  another,  and  a  heavy  rain- 
fall seemed  to  be  inevitable.  That  this  was  no  idle  conclusion  was 
shown  by  the  perfect  deluge  which  ensued  soon  after.  However,  the 
rain  finally  ceased,  the  wind  subsided,  the  clouds  parted  (though  they 
did  not  disappear),  the  sun  shone  again,  and  then,  just  as  twilight  was 
coming  on,  we  were  treated  to  a  sight  of  one  of  the  most  entrancing 
and  beautiful  sunsets  that  it  is  possible  to  imagine.  Could  it  ever  be 
fixed  upon  canvas  one  would  at  once  suppose  it  to  be  the  creation  of 
some  disordered — say  opium-smoker's — brain,  conjured  in  one  of  its 
wildest  fancies. 

At  the  west  end  of  the  lake,  near  which  the  sunset  was  witnessed, 
there  were  masses  of  clouds,  large  and  small,  tinged  with  crimson,  edged 
with  scarlet,  touched  with  the  palest  pink  and  wrapped  in  a  golden 
glory  from  the  rays  of  the  dying  sun.  At  the  north  the  cloud  effects  were 
just  as  gorgeous,  just  as  wonderful.  Purple  in  all  its  shades  vied  with 
yellow,  ranging  from  the  faintest  lemon  to  the  deepest  orange.  At  the 
eastern  side  of  the  lake  were  clouds  of  a  less  beautiful  yet  more  threat- 
ening aspect,  as  if  to  remind  us  that  a  sorrow  accompanies  every  joy. 
Overhead  were  scattered  gems  of  the  fleecy  variety,  pierced  through 
and  through  with  the  sunbeams  hurrying  along  the  sky,  their  every 
movement  revealing  their  beauties  in  newer  lights.  Near  the  south 
were  the  retreating  rain-clouds,  slowly  and  unwillingly  forced  away  by 
the  power  of  the  sun,  their  dark  and  gloomy  look  indicating  that  their 
capacity  for  drenching  the  earth  had  not  entirely  vanished.  The  lake 
itself  was  a  gem  of  a  somewhat  more  subdued  hue,  compared  with  its 
wildly  gorgeous  settings.  The  little  remaining  breaths  of  air  gently 
stirred  the  surface  of  the  lake,  creating  tiny  wavelets  of  silvery  water, 
which  leaped  and  played  like  dolphins.  The  shore-line  was  an  unend- 
ing curve  of.  the  prettiest  and   most  fascinating  shades  of   green  by 

258 


reason  of  the  surrounding  woodlands.  Over  and  beyond  the  shores  were 
clusters  of  trees  and  clumps  of  bushes,  set  on  the  hill-tops,  thus  making 
their  beauty  more  prominent. 

Jutting  out  into  the  lake  were  various  piers,  their  details  obliterated 
in  the  fast-failing  twilight  and  looking  like  gigantic  black  pencils  to 
be  used  only  by  enormous  beings. 

As  the  twilight  faded,  the  colors  were  gradually  withdrawn  and 
superseded  by  the  growing  darkness.  The  sun  itself  seemed  to  be 
sinking  with  less  than  its  accustomed  speed,  as  if  reluctant  to  leave  a 
scene  so  magnificent,  so  peerless. 

The  watchers  wended  their  way  homeward,  conscious  of  having 
witnessed  a  splendor  that  transfigured  and  ennobled  them  by  its  sur- 
passing beauty.  It  was  Nature  who  painted  that  picture — Nature,  with 
sunbeams  for  a  brush,  clouds  for  pigments,  and  the  sky  for  a  canvas. — 
Helga  M.  Leburg. 


A    LAKE    TAHOE    SUNSET    SEEN    FROM    SHAKESPEARE    ROCK. 

Shakespeare  Rock  is  a  perpendicular  cliff  in  the  Sierra  Nevada 
mountains.  Seated  upon  a  genuine  stage  coach  beside  a  real  Western 
stage  driver,  who  handles  his  six-horse  team  with  characteristic  energy, 
the  tourist  dashes  down  the  canyon,  around  a  sharp  turn  in  the  road, 
and  into  the  presence  of  this  mighty  monument  of  mountain-making. 
When  told  to  look  for  Shakespeare,  he  at  once  tries  to  stretch  his 
previous  conception  of  the  lineaments  of  Shakespeare's  visage  into  con- 
formity with  the  outline  of  the  whole  cliff.  But  this  is  too  great  a 
stretch  of  imagination.  The  rock  rises  vertically  one  hundred  feet 
above  the  broken  remnants  of  its  former  self  that  lie  at  its  base;  its 
width  is  about  two-thirds  of  its  height.  Closer  observation  reveals  the 
secret  of  its  name.  When  the  tourist  is  told  that  the  likenesses  of  an 
Indian  and  of  a  Dutchman  as  well  as  that  of  Shakespeare  are  upon 
the  face  of  the  rock,  he  discovers  certain  discolorations  which,  with 
the  aid  of  his  imagination,  more  or  less  slowly  resolve  themselves  into 
the  required  countenances.  That  of  Shakespeare,  which  very  closely 
resembles  his  picture,  is  quite  distinct;  it  occupies  a  central  position, 
as  if  Nature  had  painted  the  poet's  portrait  and  made  the  massive 
frame  in  order  to  give  enduring  expression  to  her  own  appreciation  of 
her  most  favored  author. 

On  the  summit  of  this  rock,  two  hundred  feet  above  the  surface  of 
the  water,  let  us  take  our  stand  to  witness  the  panoramic  splendors  of 
a  Lake  Tahoe  sunset.  We  are  facing  the  west.  At  the  right,  far  below  us. 
nestling  between  the  feet  of  two  great  mountains,  is  the  village  of  Glen- 
brook.  Patches  of  green  pasture,  small  fields  of  waving  grain,  and  clumps 
of  tall  pines  crowd  one  another  for  standing  room.  The  school-house 
yonder,  at  the  foot  of  the  winding  grade,  the  cottages,  and  the  campers' 
tents  look  cozy  as  they  crouch  for.  protection  in  the  shade  of  lofty  moun- 

259 


tains  or  towering  pines.  On  the  shore  of  the  lake  stand  the  sawmills, — 
fishermen  drawing  out  the  leviathan-like  logs  with  hooks.  The  mountains 
reach  out  two  long  arms  and  gently  enfold  Glenbrook  Bay.  Held  up 
by  the  snow-capped  Sierras  as  a  mirror  for  the  sun  and  the  clouds,  the 
crystal  lake  stretches  away  before  us,  its  broad  expanse  unruffled  by 
the  gentlest  zephyr.  The  mirror  seems  to  be  inlaid  in  a  framework  of 
gems.  The  brown  of  the  topaz,  the  dark  green  of  the  emerald  and  the 
lighter  green  of  the  chrysoprase,  the  yellow  of  the  Tiffany  Diamond, 
and  the  blue  of  the  turquoise  are  all  seen  in  variegated  arrangements 
according  to  the  depth  of  the  water  and  the  material  of  the  lake  bot- 
tom. A  border  of  sapphire  everywhere  separates  the  gems  from  the 
broad  reflector. 

Overhead  the  clouds  are  floating  in  fleecy  flimsiness,  while  favored 
fantastic  forms  are  blushing  as  the  Lord  of  Day  kisses  them  good- 
night. The  stillness  of  the  evening  hour  and  the  quietness  of  nature 
are  undisturbed  save  by  the  movements  of  a  little  naphtha  launch  that 
glides  from  the  wharf  below,  as  if  to  follow  the  retreating  orb  across 
the  silvery  lake  to  his  gorgeous  chambers  of  the  west.  Old  Sol  stands 
for  a  moment  amidst  his  splendidly  apparelled  messengers  of  light, 
and  smiles  complacently  at  the  wondrous  picture  mirrored  before  him. 
For  a  moment  we  are  on  a  mountain  of  transfiguration  beholding 
Nature  glorified.  Then,  gayly  waving  a  fond  good-bye  to  the  nestling 
village  and  reverently  kissing  the  brows  of  the  gray-headed  mountains, 
the  king  turns  and,  parting  the  curtains  of  crimson  and  silver  and  gold 
which  gracefully  close  behind  him,  is  gone.  But  the  radiating  path- 
ways of  light  remain,  like  the  wake  of  a  steamer,  to  tell  us  that  the 
light  of  this  earth  has  passed  this  way. — Delbert  S.  Ullrick. 


SOMEBODY'S    GRANDMOTHER. 

Some  little  time  ago  I  was  walking  unsteadily  up  the  aisle  of  a 
swaying  railway  coach,  with  a  heavy  case  in  one  hand  while  the  other 
was  fully  occupied  in  assisting  myself  to  retain  a  rather  uncertain 
poise.  Fear  was  knocking  at  my  heart,  for  not  a  seat  appeared  to  be 
vacant;  and  a  mental  picture  of  the  forty  weary  miles  to  be  covered 
was  just  presenting  itself  when  out  from  behind  a  broad-shouldered 
man  peered  two  bright  old  eyes  over  a  pair  of  dull  old  spectacles. 
Surely  their  message  was  to  be  read  in  only  one  way:  an  invitation  was 
plainly  written  there.  Even  more  than  that  was  visible  to  my  not  too 
far-seeing  orbs;  and  I  thought,  as  I  approached  the  owner  of  the  eyes, 
that  they  showed  fatigue  from  a  long  journey,  loneliness  because  of  no 
one  to  whom  she  could  talk,  and  satisfaction  as  I  seated  myself  beside 
her. 

The  first  rapid  conclusion  that  this  woman  must  have  come  a  long 
way  was  not  wrong,  if  one  could  judge  from  little  evidences  about  her. 
It  would  scarcely  require  a  Sherlock  Holmes  to  draw  a  few  conclusions 

260 


from  the  object  that  was  reposing  near  her  substantial,  elastic-sided 
shoe.  There  was  a  basket  with  its  covers  warped  just  enough  to  al low- 
one  a  glimpse  of  a  red-and-white  checked  napkin;  and  either  imagina- 
tion was  playing  the  traitor  this  time,  or  else  a  delicious  odor  of  old- 
fashioned  gingerbread  was  wafted  forth.  In  her  lap  was  a  hand-bag  of 
the  reticule  order,  which  she  held  firmly  with  one  hand,  while  she 
tossed  the  handle  back  and  forth  with  her  thumb.  She  opened  the  bag 
from  time  to  time  to  see  if  her  return  ticket  were  safe  in  the  pocket 
or  to  pursue  around  the  bottom  a  perverse  and  wily  peppermint. 

Her  whole  appearance  suggested  a  comfortable  lack  of  slavish 
adherence  to  the  prevailing  mode,  from  her  skirt  of  last  year's  cut,  and 
her  waist  with  its  sleeves  of  four  winters  back,  to  her  rather  too-com- 
modious bonnet,  which  was  suspended  from  a  nail  just  above  her  head. 
The  handkerchief  of  generous  proportions  that  was  spread  over  the 
bonnet  could  not  quite  conceal  a  "posy,"  whose  agitated  motions 
betrayed  that  it  was  quite  as  startled  as  could  possibly  be  the  observer. 

Her  garb  was  relieved  from  ugliness  by  that  article  so  indispen- 
sable to  a  grandmother's  wardrobe,  a  dainty  jabot  of  lace,  and  by  a 
really  beautiful  old  shell  comb,  which  topped  her  hair  and  caught  the 
rays  of  the  late  afternoon  sun.  Certainly  my  friend  must  have  had 
some  firmness  to  have  resisted  a  granddaughters's  teasing  for  that 
comb. 

All  of  these  homely  details  could  never  have  come  under  the 
observer's  eye  had  not  my  old  lady  talked  incessantly  with  such  rapid 
questions,  answers,  and  bits  of  useful  information  that  inattention  was 
impossible.  Words  flowed  from  her  in  streams,  amusing  me,  relieving 
her,  and  filling  my  mind  with  knowledge  of  her  town,  her  house,  her 
daughters,  her  grandchildren,  the  last  church  sociable,  and  the  quilt 
that  she  had  just  finished  for  Jennie's  boy  Tom,  who  was  going  to 
marry  Sallie  Waters  and  move  to  Arizona. 

Regret  and  amazement  were  the  sensations  that  the  conclusion  of 
the  ride  brought  with  them,  and,  as  I  turned  at  the  door  of  the  car, 
I  took  one  last,  lingering  look  back,  that  I  might  impress  upon  my 
mind  a  lasting  and  delightful  picture  of  somebody's  grandmother. — 
Ida  A.  Campbell. 

POLLY'S      APRON. 

It  was  just  a  checked  gingham  apron.  The  small  squares,  once 
blue  and  white,  were  now  merging  into  one  another  because  of  the 
frequent  applications  of  dirt,  soap,  and  water,  in  turn.  It  hung  with 
the  cast-off  clothing  in  limp,  lifeless  folds,  like  a  plant  in  want  of 
water.  Knowing  that  it  was  Polly's  apron,  the  curiosity  to  learn  more 
of  her  childhood  days  led  me  to  examine  it.  It  hangs  full,  in  the  front 
and  back,  from  a  low,  round  neck,  and  is  smooth  across  the  shoulders. 
A  ruffle  three  inches  in  width  surrounds  the  neck  and  armholes.  Half- 
way to  the  bottom,  on  the  right  side,  is  a  pocket  neatly  stitched.     One 

■j.;  i 


corner  is  coming  loose,  and  the  whole  pocket  stands  puffed  out,  as 
though  accustomed  to  being  distended  to  the  limits  of  endurance. 
Lastly,  attached  to  the  sides,  are  strings,  which  could  scarcely  be  rec- 
ognized as  the  butterfly  bow  that  was  always  tied  at  Polly's  back. 

So  much  for  the  apron,  now  let  us  note  the  decorations,  which  are 
odd  and  characteristic  of  Polly.  First  in  size  and  therefore  in  import- 
ance is  the  large,  ominous  black  spot,  far  down  in  front  with  a  whole 
retinue  of  smaller  counterparts  trailing  off  to  the  right.  Of  course, 
these  came  from  no  other  source  than  very  friendly  ink-bottles  and 
pens  in  untrained  fingers.  To  counterbalance  these  spots,  on  the  other 
side  is  a  brown  stain  suggestive  of  a  tip-toe  visit  to  a  pantry,  forbidden 
sweets,  jam  probably,  and  a  catastrophe,  caused  by  a  mouse  and  a 
guilty  conscience.  Other  spots  in  various  sizes  and  forms  are  due  to 
Polly's  aversion  to  a  bib,  while  a  long  black  streak  in  the  back  reminds 
us  of  the  last  time  the  fence  was  painted. 

In  addition  to  the  spots  and  stains  there  are  holes  and  patches. 
There  is  the  round  hole,  the  square  hole,  the  three-cornered  hole,  and 
the  one  which  the  mathematician  would  call  the  hole  of  the  nth  degree. 
Patches  are  to  match.  Just  above  the  hem  in  front  is  a  group  of  three- 
cornered,  round,  square,  oblong,  nth  degree  holes  irregularly  arranged. 
These  were  cut  by  Polly's  new  scissors  in  imitation  of  the  insertion  in 
her  mother's  apron.  In  the  back,  hidden  by  two  folds  pinned  together, 
lurks  a  large,  shapeless  rent.  Polly  accounted  for  this  by  saying  that 
her  apron  "just  grabbed  hold  of  a  nail  and  tore  itself."  Opposite 
this  is  a  small,  round  hole,  brown  near  the  edge,  which  proclaims  itself 
the  result  of  the  delightful  but  dangerous  sport  of  playing  with  fire. 
The  only  part  of  the  apron  entirely  free  from  stains  and  rents  is 
adorned  with  a  large  red  patch.  It  is  sewed  on  the  outside  with  the 
frayed  edges  loose,  and  is  held  in  place  by  long,  rambling  stitches 
such  as  characterize  the  young  and  inexperienced  seamstress. 

Such  is  Polly's  apron.  Patches,  holes,  stains,  ties,  pocket, — all 
together  make  it  not  a  harmonious  but  a  very  suggestive  whole.  For, 
note  how  much  the  description  of  Polly's  apron  tells  of  Polly  herself. — 
Laura  Ullrich. 


THE    SITTING-ROOM    IN    GRANDFATHER'S    HOUSE. 

The  sitting-room  in  Grandfather's  house  is  the  most  home-like  of 
all.  There  is  a  bright-colored  carpet  on  the  floor  and  light  paper  on 
the  walls,  which  causes  a  sharp  contrast  with  the  somber  air  of  the 
parlor  and  "best  rooms."  It  is  not  a  very  large  room — about  fourteen 
feet  square,  I  should  say,  but  it  is  made  very  pleasant  by  the  addition 
of  a  bay  window  that  looks  out  upon  the  street.  This  window  faces 
the  west,  and  even  now  the  rays  of  the  afternoon  sun  are  shining  in, 
and  they  fill  the  room  with  a  mellow  light. 

The  sitting-room  is  not  elegantly  furnished.  That  chair  in  which 
Grandmother    is    sitting   was   purchased    when    she    and    Grandfather 

262 


began  housekeeping  fifty  years  ago.  Grandfather's  favorite  chair  La  a 
family  heirloom,  handed  down  from  father  to  son  for  four  generations. 
It  is  true  that  some  of  the  furniture  is  modern,  but  it  is  seldom  used 
except  by  the  younger  members  of  the  family,  for  Grandfather  and 
Grandmother  love  these  old  chairs  and  pictures,  which  recall  to  their 
minds  memories  of  days  gone  by. 

The  table  stands  in  the  center  of  the  room.  Its  covering  is  a  red 
cloth,  over  which  are  strewn  pamphlets,  magazines  and  a  few  books. 
The  organ  stands  in  one  corner,  and  on  the  rack  I  see  a  copy  of  the 
"Gospel  Hymns."  Near  the  door  that  leads  to  the  bedroom  is  the  sofa. 
It  is  evidently  very  old,  for  the  woodwork  is  of  mahogany  and  the  arms 
and  legs  are  curiously  carved. 

In  the  corner  by  the  window  is  a  stand  with  bric-a-brac — a  "what 
not,"  as  we  used  to  call  it.  On  it  are  placed  shells  and  curios,  souvenirs 
of  pleasure  trips  to  the  seashore  and  visits  to  friends.  On  the  walls 
are  a  number  of  pictures  of  friends  who  are  dead  and  gone.  There  are 
our  great-grandparents — a  venerable  couple  who  long  since  have  gone 
to  the  land  where  tears  and  troubles  are  not  known.  There  hangs  the 
picture  of  our  mother  when  she  was  a  child,  and  on  the  wall  over  the 
organ  is  a  print  of  the  old  church  which  Grandmother  attended  when 
a  girl. 

Grandmother  is  sitting  in  a  rocking-chair  by  the  stove.  She  is 
knitting  a  stocking,  and  as  she  plies  her  needles  she  hums  over  one  of 
the  airs  which  she  learned  when  she  was  young. 

Grandfather,  in  his  favorite  arm-chair,  is  reading  the  Bible.  He 
is  old  now,  and  his  back  is  somewhat  bent  with  the  weight  of  years, 
yet  his  form  tells  of  days  when  he  was  a  powerful  man.  His  hair  is 
nearly  white,  and  a  pair  of  silver-bowed  spectacles  sits  astride  of  his 
nose.  His  face  is  lighted  up  with  something  of  a  heavenly  light  as  he 
reads  the  old,  old  story  of  the  love  and  compassion  of  Jesus.  His  voice 
is  not  so  strong  as  formerly,  and  he  hesitates  a  little  now  and  then. 
As  he  reads  the  account  of  the  platting  of  the  crown  of  thorns,  the 
scourging,  and  the  cruel  death,  tears  flow  down  Grandma's  cheeks,  and, 
when  the  story  is  finished,  there  is  a  long  silence. — Henry  Avery 
Thompson. 

TAKING  A   SERMON. 

Although  he  often  indulged  in  flights  of  oratory,  one  could  see  by 
his  nervous  manner  and  the  position  of  his  hand  during  the  delivery 
that  our  clergyman  could  not  trust  himself  far  from  his  manuscript. 
Saturday  afternoon  found  him  tired,  half  sick,  and  eager  to  make  the 
final  draft  of  his  morning  sermon  in  order  that  he  might  afterwards 
secure  as  much  rest  as  possible. 

The  pastor  of  one  of  the  city  churches  had  called  upon  me  to 
assist  him  in  a  case  of  emergency  by  typewriting  his  sermon.  This  was 
my  first  experience   in  taking  dictation  from   a  preacher,  and  I   was 

263 


determined  to  make  a  record.  Any  one  of  my  fellow-wcrkers  will 
appreciate  the  nervous  state  I  was  in.  His  notes  had  been  carefully 
selected,  and  consequently  he  knew  pretty  well  what  he  wanted  to  say. 
As  he  became  "warmed  up  to  his  subject"  he  began  to  dictate  faster. 
Corresponding  to  his  increase  in  speed,  my  nearly  upright  position 
had  changed  until  I  found  myself  cramped  over  the  table,  my  hand 
making  all  kinds  of  lightning  dashes  which  I  wondered  if  I  would  ever 
be  able  to  read.  Now  he  began  to  grow  more  eloquent,  and  just  as  he 
reached  a  very  impressive  climax — bang!  went  the  door  and,  to  my 
horror,  I  realized  that  I  had  lost  a  word.  But  down  he  came  with 
increased  momentum,  and  I  could  not  stop  writing  long  enough  to 
ask  him  a  question.  It  was  like  a  train  shooting  through  a  tunnel  and 
momentarily  shutting  out  the  light.  Now  we  were  several  pages  ahead 
of  this  break,  and  were  nearing  the  close  of  the  dictation.  I  did  not 
want  to  let  him  know  that  I  had  missed  a  word,  and  encouraged  myself 
by  saying  that  the  context  would  help  me  out.  He  now  dismissed  me 
and  told  me  to  have  the  copy  ready  for  him  in  the  morning. 

Contrary  to  all  expectations,  I  had  no  special  difficulty  in  decipher- 
ing my  notes  until  I  came  to  that  climax.  I  went  up  one  side  and 
down  the  other,  substituting  in  this  break  every  word  I  could  think  of, 
but  none  seemed  to  fit.  I  imagined  that  I  was  giving  the  sermon,  and 
went  at  it  with  much  spirit,  thinking  thereby  to  receive  an  inspiration, 
but  to  no  avail.  However,  I  must  put  in  something,  for  my  reputation 
was  at  stake, — but  what  if  I  should  substitute  the  wrong  word  and  the 
preacher  should  become  confused!  I  knew  that  he  had  perfect  confi- 
dence in  his  regular  stenographer  and  seldom  read  over  the  typewritten 
matter  before  the  sermon.  But  nothing  seemed  exactly  to  fit  in,  so  I 
finally  left  a  space  and  proceeded  to  finish  making  the  transcript,  which 
I  delivered  to  him  that  evening. 

The  next  morning  I  took  a  back  seat  in  church  and  waited  to  see 
what  the  result  would  be.  The  nearer  he  came  to  that  place,  the 
farther  down  I  managed  to  get  in  the  seat,  until  I  could  just  catch  a 
glimpse  of  his  face.  He  was  making  the  ascent  slowly  and  very  impres- 
sively. I  shuddered  to  think  of  his  coming  up  to  the  climax  and  finding 
no  climax  there;  it. would  be  worse  than  failure.  But  he  kept  on  and 
step  by  step  reached  the  very  height,  and  then  ensued  for  a  moment 
perfect  silence.  The  truth  now  dawned  upon  me — this  was  merely  a 
rhetorical  pause,  and  it  had  so  happened  that  the  door  had  slammed 
just  as  he  came  to  this  point  in  the  dictation. — D.  F.  Angier. 


A  VIEW  FROM  MY  PORCH  ON  A  SUMMER  EVENING. 

As  I  sit  on  my  porch,  on  a  warm  summer  evening,  myself  screened 
from  view  by  vines  and  thick  foliage,  the  scene  before  me  is  one 
of  great  interest.  Gathered  in  the  street  and  on  the  lawns  across 
the  way,  is  a  congregation  of  children  from  the  neighboring  homes; 
children  varying  in  age  from  six  months  to  twelve  years. 

264 


There  are  the  two  Jones  boys,  tow-headed,  freckle-faced,  and  bare- 
footed. The  bruises  on  their  feet  and  the  toes  wrapped  in  dirty- 
rags  give  evidence  that  shoes  are  never  worn  more  than  once  a 
week — on  Sundays.  An  onlooker  would  hardly  be  able  to  tell  these 
two  boys  apart,  but  their  companions  seem  to  have  no  difficulty  in 
doing  so.  There,  too,  are  the  Finnegan  boys,  three  of  them,  handsome 
little  fellows,  presenting  a  striking  contrast  to  the  rest  of  the  group. 
One  is  a  bright,  good-natured  little  fellow,  with  curly  brown  hair, 
blue  eyes,  and  a  complexion  that  any  girl  might  well  envy.  He  is 
a  general  favorite  and  is  the  peace-maker  of  the  crowd.  His  brother, 
a  year  or  two  older,  is  cross  and  surly  and  is  the  cause  of  much  of 
the  trouble,  of  which  there  is  no  lack.  His  face  always  wears  a 
scowl  and  a  bored  look,  which  seems  to  say  that  life  is  not  worth 
living.  "Chicken"  is  also  a  prominent  character.  This  is  the  nick- 
name which  clings  to  a  tall,  awkward  lad  whom  the  other  boys  delight 
in  tormenting.  The  name  was  given  to  him  on  account  of  his  peculiar 
manner  of  walking,  and  is  very  well  applied.  He  may  usually  be  seen  at 
this  hour  riding  up  and  down  the  street  on  what  his  tormentors  call 
an  "ice  wagon,"  but  a  "Columbia  Chainless"  could  not  be  more  dear  to 
him.  A  grotesque  figure  he  is  with  the  arch  of  his  foot  on  the  pedals, 
his  arms  extended  to  their  greatest  length  to  reach  the  wide-spreading 
handle-bars,  his  head  held  high  in  the  air  until  the  wheel  strikes  a 
stone  and  his  pride,  together  with  himself  and  his  wheel,  is  brought 
low  in  the  dust.  A  game  of  "scrub"  is  in  progress,  but  it  cannot  last 
long  as  the  constant  dispute  as  to  whether  or  not  some  one  is  out 
is  sure  to  end  in  a  fight  and  a  scattering  of  the  boys  to  opposite 
sides  of  the  street,  where  they  sit  and  glare  at  each  other  for  a  few 
minutes  and  then  decide  to  try  it  again. 

On  one  side  of  the  street  are  gathered  the  baby  carriages  of  the 
neighborhood,  while  the  nurse  girls  play  hide-and-seek  around  the 
corners  of  the  houses,  and  are  recalled  to  their  duty  only  by  the 
scream  of  some  child  as  its  carriage  rolls  out  into  the  street  and 
tips  over.  The  little  girls  with  their  dolls  in  diminutive  go-carts  are 
much  more  attentive  to  their  charges,  never  leaving  them  for  a 
moment. 

But  most  interesting  of  all,  is  the  third  Finnegan  boy,  a  little 
fellow  of  about  three  years,  the  dirtiest,  raggedest,  and  the  happiest 
of  the  whole  crowd.  Dressed  in  the  outgrown  garments  of  his  two 
older  brothers,  his  stockings  falling  down  over  shoes  entirely  innocent 
of  buttons,  he  makes  a  picture  long  to  be  remembered.  In  his  hand 
he  carries  the  crown  of  a  straw  hat,  which  he  can  never  be  persuaded 
to  put  on  his  head.  Indeed,  it  would  be  a  shame  to  cover  his  curls,  his 
only  beauty,  with  such  a  wreck  of  a  hat.  His  fists  are  always  in  good 
fighting  order,  and  he  may  be  heard  to  challenge  some  man  passing  on 
the  street  more  often  than  any  of  his  playmates.  His  vocabulary,  even 
English  A  students,  would  be  puzzled  to  spell.     His  brothers  say  that 

265 


his  name  is  John  Earl,  but  his  own  version  of  it  I  will  not  attempt  to 
write.  He  is  certainly  the  star  performer  in  this  scene  which  I  see 
enacted  every  evening. — Gertrude  B.  Maxham. 


PULP. 

Why  he  was  called  Pulp  I  do  not  know,  unless  it  be  that  his 
posture  generally  reminded  one  of  a  bag  of  rags  standing  alone. 
His  favorite  place  for  spending  evenings  was  the  corner  of  the  two 
principal  streets  of  the  village,  and  it  was  there  that  I  saw  him  one 
night,  propping  himself  up  against  the  corner-post,  his  hands  shoved 
into  his  pockets  nearly  up  to  his  elbows,  while  an  expression  of  stolid 
indifference  overspread  his  face. 

He  is  tall  and  well  proportioned,  if  he  would  only  stand  erect, 
but  that  is  too  much  work.  One  leg,  making  an  angle  of  sixty  degrees 
with  the  sidewalk,  bears  that  part  of  his  weight  that  is  not  supported 
by  the  building,  while  the  other  leg  is  bent  so  that  his  foot  hangs 
on  the  basement-stone,  resting  there  until  it  shall  be  called  into 
use  in  its  turn.  His  back,  being  shaped  like  a  rocker,  touches  the 
building  in  only  one  point.  His  neck  projects  forward  from  a  pair 
of  stooped  shoulders  over  a  hollow  chest,  and  ends  in  a  large,  unshapely 
head.  Standing  as  he  does,  he  resembles  a  curved  hammock-stick 
leaning  against  the  wall.  His  clothing  is  of  sufficient  size  to  allow 
perfect  freedom  of  motion,  were  there  any  thought  on  his  part  of 
moving  at  all,  his  trousers,  especially,  being  large  enough  to  accom- 
modate a  man  of  twice  his  size.  They  are  of  corduroy,  but  even  in 
this  durable  material  he  has  worn  holes  at  the  ankles.  Now  he  has 
slipped  down  through  them  until  they  leave  a  short  space  above 
his  heavy  cowhide  boots,  from  which  peep,  none  too  modestly,  a 
pair  of  socks,  once  gray,  but  now  nearer  the  color  of  his  shoes.  The 
knees  of  the  breeches  are  stretched  so  as  to  form  almost  another 
pocket  on  the  leg  that  is  straight,  while  their  .general  worn  appearance 
betrays  their  age.  His  pockets,  opening  at  the  top,  are  completely 
filled  by  his  enormous  hands. 

The  coat  and  vest  are  a  few  shades  lighter  than  his  trousers,  and 
their  general  condition  is  better.  Only  three  vest  buttons  are  on 
hand  for  duty,  While  those  on  his  coat  are  hidden  in  the  folds  as  it 
hangs  back  of  his  hands.  The  soiled  collar  turns  up  a  little  in  the 
back,  meeting  his  hair.  In  his  right-hand  pocket  can  be  seen  a  red 
bandanna. 

Underneath  these  garments  appears  a  black  shirt  with  a  large, 
soft  collar  fastened  together  with  a  pin.  Above  all  is  an  unshapely 
hat  of  black  felt — such  a  hat  as  boys  like  .to  throw  up  and  shoot  at. 
It  rests  on  the  back  of  his  head,  while  out  from  under  its  edges 
protrudes  a  mass  of  unkempt  brown  hair. 

His  head  may  be  called  angular.     The  crown  is  flat  and  the  sides 

266 


are  straight,  with  ears  that  Btick  out  almost  at  right  angles.  A 
dark  complexion,  a  sandy  mustache,  and  a  short  growth  of  heard 
are  the  principal  features  of  his  face.  It  would  puzzle  an  expert 
physiognomist  to  find  any  expression  there,  excepting,  perhaps,  the 
stubbornness  that  the  broad  chin  may  denote. 

He  was  looking  at  the  pavement  as  I  passed,  and  when,  after 
walking  to  the  next  corner,  I  turned  again  to  see  him,  he  was  still 
looking  at  that  identical  spot,  and  would  probably  continue  to  look 
at  it  until  something  more  striking  happened  to  attract  his  attention. 
— A.  L.  Gates. 

THE   WEDDED  TREES. 

We  are  following  a  trail  winding  through  a  pine  forest  out  in  the 
Rocky  Mountains.  The  midday  sunshine  is  warm  and  comfortable. 
The  sweet  breath  of  the  pines  fills  the  air  with  a  spicy  fragrance. 
A  distant  waterfall  and  the  pines  keep  on  whispering  to  each  other. 

But  now  a  picture  by  the  wayside  wrests  our  thoughts  from  this 
communion.  It  is  a  picture  of  two  pine  trees.  Yes,  it  is  true,  pine 
trees  grow  thick  and  wild  on  every  side,  but  these  two  have  progressed 
a  step  beyond  all  others  of  the  vast  multitude.  They  live  so  near 
each  other  that  a  small  child  could  barely  walk  between  them,  and 
there  grows  from  the  heart  of  one  to  the  heart  of  the  other  a 
wooden  bond.  This  sacred  branch  is  not  straight  like  an  iron  rod,  but 
it  has  a  graceful  curve  such  as  is  characteristic  of  the  careless 
hand  of  Nature.  It  is  as  large  around  as  the  great  bushy  tail  of 
to  find  a  hiding  place  in  the  folds  of  its  green  garments, 
a   lithe   squirrel    that  just   now    scampered   up  the  tree  on   the   right 

It  will  be  many  years  before  this  unitea  pair  will  celebrate  their 
diamond  wedding,  for  their  young  bodies  are  now  slender  enough 
for  infant  arms  to  embrace.  These  trees,  like  all  their  pine  friends, 
are  straight  and  tall.  WTith  tapering  limbs  free  from  knots  and 
wrinkles,  they  stand,  majestic  and  noble,  defying  the  force  of  the 
winds.  Sword  ferns  and  maidenhairs  play  around  their  feet.  Be- 
neath the  soft  leaves  of  the  ferns  fine  ivies  creep.  Half  buried  in 
the  rich  black  soil  are  last  year's  cones,  now  wet  and  worm-eaten.  The 
bark  is  smooth,  and  of  a  greenish  brown.  The  green  appearance  is 
given  by  small  tenacious  lichens.  On  several  of  the  lower  limbs 
hang  small  bunches  of  black  moss,  which  looks  just  like  goats'  whiskers. 
It  grows  out  of  the  twigs  like  rootlets.  Each  hair  branches  and  re- 
branches, till  the  finest  hairs  can  scarcely  be  discerned  by  the  naked 
eye.  Tiny  green  lichens  crouch  close  to  every  hair  of  the  moss, 
but  they  are  neither  large  enough  nor  numerous  enough  to  blemish 
the  black  hair.  The  trees  are  clothed  in  somber  green  foliage  with 
shiny  brown  cones  for  trimming.  The  leaves  have  the  shape  of  a 
short  needle  flattened  by  a  great  weight.  Each  leaf  is  dusted  with  a 
powdery  substance  that  looks  like   pollen.     The  pines  have  used  the 

267 


cones  to  adorn  their  top-most  branches.  This  is  a  wise  use  of  these 
ornaments,  for  there  where  the  sunlight  strikes  them  they  are  far 
more  beautiful  than  they  would  be  on  the  shady  lower  branches. 
Each  cone  is  about  the  shape  of  a  farmer's  stubby  thumb,  but  unlike 
such  an  awkward  object  in  action,  for  the  cones  display  perfect  grace 
when  they  move  together  with  the  swaying  branches. 

Ihus  bound  to  each  other,  this  wedded  pair  whisper  together  in 
summer,  moan  together  in  November,  and  bear  together  their  burden 
of  snow  in  winter.  We  do  not  know  what  nymph  of  the  forest  bound 
their  wooden  hearts  into  one;  but  it  must  have  been  a  beautiful  cere- 
mony;   and  now  "may  they  live  long  and  prosper." — Effie  Kinnison. 


A  STREET  SCENE. 

It  is  just  at  noon  of  a  beautiful  autumn  day,  and  chapel-goers, 
leisurely  or  hurriedly,  as  their  appetites  impel,  are  directing  their 
steps  toward  their  respective  dinners.  On  the  sidewalk  in  front  of 
one  of  the  boarding-houses  a  little  group  has  gathered,  while  from 
the  upper  windows  laughing  faces  look  eagerly  down  upon  the  scene 
below.  In  a  corner  of  the  yard  stands  a  woman,  a  foreigner,  evi- 
dently, but  of  what  nationality  it  is  difficult  to  tell.  Her  skin  is  of 
a  darker  shade  than  that  of  the  girls  around  her,  but  her  hair  is  a 
soft,  light  brown,  while  her  features  are  small  and  -almost  delicate. 
She  is  neatly  dressed,  with  even  some  attempt  at  ornament,  for  there 
is  a  gay  ribbon  at  her  throat,  and  a  clean  white  apron  hides  the  dingy 
skirt.  No  heavy  earrings  disfigure  her  ears,  and  she  seems  far  supe- 
rior to  most  women  of  her  station.  She  sways  lightly  to  one  side  as 
she  stands,  and  the  accordion  which  she  holds  and  plays  with  machine- 
like regularity  seems  too  heavy  for  the  slight  figure.  There  is  little 
expression  in  her  face;  she  seems  to  take  no  note  of  the  people 
around,  but  one  may  imagine  that  underneath  there  is  a  feeling  of 
weariness,  almost  of  hatred  for  herself  and  for  the  gay,  curious 
faces  near.  It  is  not  a  face  that  is  easy  to  read,  perhaps  there  is 
no  story  beneath  it,  but  if  there  is  any  at  all,  it  is  a  sad  one,  of 
that  we  may  be  sure. 

Even  more  pathetic  than  the  woman  is  the  child  solemnly  dancing 
in  the  middle  of  the  yard.  She  is  perhaps  nine  or  ten  years  old, 
short  and  thick-set,  with  heavy,  straight  black  hair,  large  round 
eyes,  and  a  dark,  swarthy  complexion.  She  is  dressed  in  the  regula- 
tion shirt-waist  and  skirt,  with  collar,  tie,  and  belt  all  complete.  Her 
clothes  indicate  little  care,  and  are  far  shabbier  than  those  of  the 
woman.  There  is  no  touch  of  color  to  set  off  the  dark  face  and  hair, 
nothing  to  make  her  look  as  a  child  should  look.  Her  dancing  slippers 
are  heavy  half-button  shoes,  stouter  even  than  those  with  which 
fashion  and  common  sense  have  decreed  that  the  college  woman  shall 
be  shod.     In   one  hand   she  holds  above  her  head  a  worn  and   dirty 

268 


tambourine,  while  with  the  other  she  picks  up  her  scanty  calico  skirt, 
and  circles  slowly  around  the  yard — not  with  the  lightness  of  foot  that 
we  usually  ascribe  to  Italians,  not  even  with  the  natural  grace  of 
childhood.  Her  face  is  like  the  woman's,  not  in  features  or  coloring 
but  in  expression,  for  it  has  the  same  stolid,  meaningless  calm,  only 
in  the  child  it  is  far  more  pitiful,  contrasted  with  the  quick  responsive- 
ness and  gaiety  that  we  see  in  other  children.  The  longer  we  look, 
the  sadder  becomes  the  grave,  self-possessed  little  figure  in  its  mockery 
of  dancing,  and  the  more  touching  grows  the  dull  dark  face,  standing 
as  a  type  of  all  the  hopeless  faces  of  the  many  children  who  are 
"weeping  ere  the  sorrow  comes  with  years." — Ellen  Barrows. 


AN    ATTIC    CORNER. 

While  in  the  attic  practicing  elocution,  my  attention  is  drawn  to  a 
corner  of  the  room.  Taking  a  seat  on  a  trunk  near  by,  I  notice  some 
of  the  objects  around  me. 

On  my  left  stands  an  old  bookcase.  It  is  very  plain  and  has  no 
doors  or  curtains.  Some  of  the  shelves  are  completely  filled  with 
books,  while  others  hold  but  a  very  small  number.  These  books  are 
of  all  sizes  and  colors  and  ages,  ranging  from  one  hundred  and  fifty 
years  back  down  to  within  the  last  few  months.  A  good  many  of  them 
are  my  old  school-books.  Here  is  my  "First  Reader,"  which  brings 
to  mind  my  earliest  school  days.  I  also  see  "Reed's  Speller,"  "Milne's 
Arithmetic,"  on  whose  title  pages  I  read  the  names  of  former  teachers. 
Glancing  at  the  next  shelf,  I  find  "Jones's  First  Latin  Lessons," 
"Macnie's  Geometry,"  and  "Carhart's  and  Chute's  Physics."  I  well 
remember  my  last  year  in  the  high  school,  when  I  worked  hard  in 
the  laboratory.  I  look  on  the  top,  and  perceive  variously  labeled 
bottles,  which  show  the  shelf  to  be  a  sort  of  medicine  chest.  Besides 
these,  it  holds  as  ornaments  a  box  of  moth  balls,  a  tooth-brush,  a 
tin-pail,  three  cakes  of  soap,  a  piece  of  sand-paper,  a  sponge,  and 
several  boxes. 

Directly  in  front  of  me  is  a  window,  affording  a  cheerful  view  into 
the  street  below.  My  attention  is  frequently  drawn  to  the  out-door 
world  by  the  shouts  of  merry  children,  who  are  playing  down  on 
the  pavement. 

Glancing  above  the  window,  I  see  numerous  piles  of  old  Youth's 
Companions.  They  were  truly  companions  of  my  youth,  and  the  mere 
sight  of  those  papers  does  me  good.  Many  and  many  were  the  pleasant 
childhood  hours  spent  with  them. 

Away  back  in  the  corner,  almost  hidden  from  sight,  are  two 
pictures,  one  of  my  grandfather  and  the  other  of  his  brother.  They 
are  in  small,  round,  gilt  frames,  and  are  very  different  from  the 
pictures  seen  now-a-days.  The  men  wore  high  stocks,  ruffled  shirts, 
and  coats   with    wide   rolled   collars  and   big  brass  buttons.     The  pic- 

260 


tures  seem  to  take  one  back  to  the  early  thin:e.3.  Shawl-straps  and 
bunches  of  odd  keys  help  to  decorate  the  corner,  while  beneath  these 
are  a  case  of  golf  sticks  and  a  hammock,  reminders  of  the  pleasant 
summer  just  past. 

On  my  right,  near  the  window,  stands  an  old-fashioned  clock,  my 
grandfather's  clock.  Its  hands,  which  have  pointed  out  the  time  for 
many  years,  are  now  motionless  and  bent.  Below  the  time-face  is 
a  calendar,  and  between  the  two  faces,  on  the  middle  of  the  door,  are 
decorations  of  gaudy  flowers.  I  can  well  remember  when  I  would 
gaze  up  at  the  tall  case  with  a  feeling  of  awe,  and  wonder  if  I 
should  ever  be  able  to  see  over  its  top. 

Near  the  dear  old  time-piece  hangs  a  looking-glass,  broken  in 
many  places.  Who  knows  how  many  pleasant  faces  have  been  reflected 
therein? 

Close  to  me  stands  a  large  black  walnut  chest  bearing  the. letters 
M.  O.,  the  initials  of  my  great-great-grandmother's  name,  Martha 
Owen.  Opening  a  drawer,  I  find  a  small  roll  of  cloth,  the  faded 
sampler  of  my  great-grandmother.  On  a  piece  of  coarse  canvas  are 
worked  in  red,  black,  and  blue  silks  rows  of  the  letters  of  the 
alphabet  several  times  repeated  and  two  or  three  sets  of  the  numerals 
from  one  to  ten.  Below  these  one  can  read,  "Sarah  Hollinshead,  her 
sampler.  She  was  born  on  the  27  day  of  the  6  month  1783."  At 
the  bottom  are  several  conventional  designs  of  trees  and  flowers,  which 
add  even  more  quaintness  to  the  old  piece  of  fancywork.  The  date, 
1794,  is  also  to  be  deciphered  on  the  margin  of  the  sampler,  probably 
the  year  in  which  it  was  made. 

A  casual  observer  would  probably  not  consider  this  corner  a  very 
beautiful  place,  but  to  me,  for  whom  almost  every  article  has  some 
association,  it  is  beautiful  in  memories. — Elizabeth  Burr. 


THE  CAMPUS  ON  A  RAINY  MORNING. 

The  rain  is  falling  with  a  melancholy  drizzle  as  I  roach  the  south 
door  of  University  Hall,  and  turning,  look  back  over  the  campus  in 
the  direction  of  the  big  stone  pillars  at  the  end  of  the  driveway. 

Trees,  grass,  streets,  and  sidewalks,  all  seem  to  have  borrowed 
their  hue  from  the  leaden  sky  that  hangs  low  overhead.  The  branches, 
long  since  stripped  of  their  foliage,  hang  their  heads  with  a  dismal 
droop,  and  shiver  slightly  in  the  fitful  breeze,  as  if  chilled  to  the 
bone  by  the  cold  rain  that  is  drenching  them.  Already  the  water  is 
standing  in  pools  among  the  trees  and  turning  the  wheel-tracks  in 
the  driveway  into  beds  for  miniature  rivers,  while  every  hoof-print 
boasts  a  tiny  lake,  rough  with  widening  ripples  whenever  a  rain- 
drop falls  upon  its  surface.  Here  and  there  on  the  ground  are  patches 
of  snow,  like  tattered  and  soiled  fragments  of  the  beautiful  white 
mantle  that  was  formerly  spread  here. 

270 


But  the  scene  before  me  is  not  devoid  of  life,  for  along  the  winding 
Bidewalk  from  the  gate  cornea  :>  line  ot  .-  :u  Lents,  some  singly,  some 
in  groups.  First  come  two  girls,  one  in  a  dark  blue  mackintosh,  so 
long  that  i:  barely  clears  the  ground  and  flops  about  her  feet  at  every 
step,  while  she  vainly  tries  to  hold  it  up  and  at  the  same  time  manage 
her  umbrella  and  an  armful  of  books.  From  the  frown  on  her  forehead 
and  the  downward  curve  of  her  mouth  it  is  evident  that  her  mood  is 
entirely  in  accord  with  the  state  of  the  weather.  Her  companion, 
though  free  from  the  incumbrance  of  a  mackintosh,  seems  in  no  better 
humor.  She  is  pointing  with  one  hand  to  a  stray  lock  of  hair  that 
is  blowing  about  her  face,  and  is  talking  with  such  a  decided  pout  on 
her  lips  that  I  imagine  her  words  are:  "'Look  at  that!  Straight  as  a 
string,  after  all  the  bother  1  had  curling  it." 

Perhaps  a  rod  behind  these  girls  comes  a  professor,  plodding  along 
with  his  coat  collar  turned  up  around  his  ears,  one  hand  holding  a 
gigantic  "family  umbrella"  and  the  other  grasping  a  roll  of  examina- 
tion papers.  With  eyes  cast  down,  he  seems  to  be  watching  the 
jets  of  water  thrown  up  by  the  toes  of  his  immense  overshoes. 

Behind  the  professor  is  a  group  of  three  young  men  with  only 
two  umbrellas,  an  arrangement  which  is  to  the  disadvantage  of  the 
middle  man.  for  a  stream  of  water  is  now  trickling  down  upon  his 
hat.  All  three  wear  expressions  of  discontent,  and  the  weary  look 
in  their  eyes  suggests  late  hours  last  night.  Behind  them  stretches 
out  a  long  line  of  men  and  girls,  whose  aspect  seems  likewise  to  blend 
with  the  dull,  gloomy  day. 

But  no!  My  eye  falls  upon  an  exception  to  this  rule.  There,  a 
little  way  down  the  walk,  is  a  girl  of  medium  height  with  a  red 
Tam-o'-Shanter  set  back  on  her  brown,  curling  hair.  Her  short  skirt 
and  heavy  boots  make  her  indifferent  to  the  dampness  underfoot,  and 
as  she  turns  toward  me  her  smiling  face  with  its  merry  dimples  and 
its  moist  ringlets  around  the  temples,  I  smile  back,  feeling  as  if  a 
ray  of  sunshine  had  fallen  through  the  gloom  of  this  dreary  day. — H. 
Hope  Maine. 

A  GIRL'S   TOP  BUREAU   DRAWER. 

A  place  for  everything,  and  everything  in  its  place.  What  one 
of  us  has  not  had  the  well-worn  maxim  preached  to  him  ever  since 
he  can  remember?  It  may  have  had  its  effect  in  some  places,  but 
no  power  on  earth  can  persuade  me  that  it  has  made  the  slightest 
difference  as  regards  the  top  drawer  of  a  dresser.  Suppose  we  take 
a  "day  off"  and  examine  one  of  these  indispensable  and  interesting 
catchalls.     I  am  sure  our  investigation  will  be  rewarded. 

It  looks  innocent  enough  from  the  outside.  It  is  large  and 
capacious;  it  has  a  front  of  bird's-eye  maple  and  is  furnished  with 
the  conventional  brass  handle.  Who  would  ever  dream  of  the  wealth 
of  treasures  concealed  within  its  four  encircling  walls? 

>>-  1 


At    first  sight   we   are   bewildered.     The    contents   appear   as   one 
indescribable    mass,    resembling   hasty   pudding    more    than    anything 
else.     On  closer  examination,  we  discover  that  there  really  has  been 
some  attempt  at  order.     Here  in  this  corner,  for  instance,  is  a  pile 
of  the  finer  handkerchiefs  carefully  folded;  and  just  back  of  them  is 
some  tissue  paper,  containing  white  kid   gloves.     Next  to  these   and 
in  a  somewhat  more  chaotic  state  are  the  handkerchiefs  designed  for 
everyday  use  and  a  motley  collection  of  gloves  and  veils.     Now  our 
search  becomes  more  interesting;    a  pair  of  opera  glasses  and  a  pitch- 
fork might  be   of   use   in   here.     Not   having  these   luxuries,  we  will 
make  the  most  of  our  natural  abilities.     The  first  treasure  we  come 
upon,  nearly  hidden  by  an  all-embracing  work-box,  is  a  cube  of  long 
black  pins;   next  is  a  beautiful  pink  necktie,  and  lurking  in  its  pro- 
tecting folds  we  find  a  shoe-horn.     In  a  corner,  standing  haughtily  off 
by  itself,  is  a  box  of  Mennen's  Borated  Talcum,  yet,  from  the  powdered 
look  of  some  black  velvet  next  to  it,  we  infer  that  it  has  not  always 
stood  so  erect  and  proper.     Here,  almost  concealed  by  a  pile  of  stocks, 
is  a  box  of  hair  pins,  and  from  this  pile  also  a  paper  of  safety  pins  is 
issuing.     Next  we  find   a  glove-box.     Strange  that  it   should   be  here 
when  all  the  gloves  are  at  the  other  end  of  the  drawer!     No,  here  in 
the  bottom  is  a  solitary  Dent,  mourning  its  lost  mate.     This  box,  I 
think,   once  contained  wedding  cake,   but  just  at  present  it  is  filled 
with  shoe-strings.     Another  box,  judging  from  its  odor,  contains  soap. 
Next  we  come  upon  an  aluminum  thimble,   carefully  cherished  in  a 
silver-topped    salve-box.      What    unwieldy    things    those    linen    collars 
are,  always  sprawling  around  where  they  are  not  wanted,  and  taking 
up  so  much  more  than  their  share  of  room!     Beneath  these,  the  soft 
folds  of  a  Liberty  scarf  may  be  seen.    Over  and  around  everything  and 
wherever  there  is  a  chink,  are  ribbons:  violet,  indigo,  blue,  green,  yel- 
low, orange,  and  red,  besides  many  intervening  hues.   A  few  letters  are 
scattered  in  among  the  other  treasures,  as  are  also  several  belts  and  a 
broken  clock,  awaiting  the  happy  time  when  it  shall  be  taken  to  the 
jeweler's.     This,   I  think,   must   have  been  originally   intended   for  a 
handkerchief  case,  but  at  present  it  contains  nothing  but  a  cuff  button 
and  three  soda  mint  tablets.    The  tube  of  tooth  paste  has  unfortunately 
shed  its  cover  and  is  pouring  its  contents  upon  the  party  bag  next  to  it. 
Here  is  the  tape  needle  for  which  the  owner  has  been  looking  for  a 
week  and  the  fountain  pen  that  she  had  long  ago  given  up  as  lost.    This 
empty  medicine  bottle  looks  useful.   I  am  glad  it  has  been  preserved  so 
carefully.    And,  after  all,  I  believe  we  have  overlooked  the  purse,  card- 
case,  and  numerous  other  things  that  must  be  there. 

Surely,  this  has  been  a  sight  for  gods  and  men,  worthy  of  much 
serious  consideration  and  many  good  resolutions,  but  what  girl  has 
not  frequently  had  her  drawer  in  just  such  a  condition? — Mary  Ray- 
mond. 


!72 


A   ROOM    IN   A   CHICAGO   TENEMENT. 

On  the  West  Side  of  Chicago,  on  Peoria  street,  between  Lake  and 
Randolph  streets,  there  stands  a  barren-looking  house  which  is  old 
and  unpainted.  A  door  leads  to  a  flight  of  stairs,  dark  even  in  the 
daytime,  and  now  at  night  it  is  almost  impossible  to  see  one's  way. 
These  stairs,  steep  and  dirty,  lead  to  a  still  dirtier  passage,  down 
which  we  go,  trying  not  to  stumble  over  the  numerous  things  piled 
up  in  it,  and  we  finally  come  to  the  room  that  we  are  seeking.  The 
door  is  open,  and  we  see  the  family  seated  here  in  the  only  home 
they  know.  The  room  is  small,  being  not  over  twelve  feet  wide  and 
sixteen  feet  long.  Two  small-paned  windows,  one  on  the  west  and 
one  on  the  south  side,  together  with  the  door  on  the  north  side, 
let  in  the  thick,  smoky  air  of  the  city.  The  furniture  consists  of  a 
bed,  placed  in  the  south-east  corner  of  the  room;  the  cooking-stove,  in 
the  south-west  corner,  a  large  cupboard  reaching  almost  to  the  ceiling, 
in  which  the  coarse  china  is  kept,  an  old  bureau  with  a  cracked  look- 
ing-glass at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  while  on  the  west  side  of  the  room 
before  the  window  is  a  small  table.  A  lamp,  standing  on  this  table, 
emits  but  a  very  dim  light,  so  that  the  room  is  almost  in  darkness. 
Between  the  bed  and  the  cooking-stove  is  a  carriage,  in  which  lies  a 
baby,  about  three  months  old,  sound  asleep  and  surprisingly  sweet  and 
clean. 

The  inmates  of  the  room  consist  of  two  Italian  men,  two  women, 
and  the  baby.  Unlike  most  tenements,  there  is  no  swarm  of  children 
about,  although  there  must  be  a  great  many  in  the  house.  One 
of  the  Italian  men  is  sitting  at  the  table,  and  the  light  from  the 
lamp  lights  up  his  dark,  swarthy  skin  and  fiery,  deep-set  eyes.  His 
hair  is  thick  and  black,  slightly  tinged  with  grey,  and  his  nose  is 
a  veritable  eagle's  beak.  One  could  imagine  his  being  an  anarchist 
of  the  most  pronounced  type  but  for  the  contented  expression  on 
his  face,  as  he  looks  at  his  family.  His  wife  is  not  at  all  so  typical 
an  Italian  as  her  husband.  She  is  short  and  rather  stout  with  blunt 
features  and  a  much  lighter  skin  than  his.  Her  clothes  are  clean 
and,  in  this  respect,  she  is  very  different  from  the  majority  of  her 
neighbors.  This  couple  seem  to  be  very  happy,  although  they  have 
very  little  to  make  them  so. 

The  other  Italian  is  older  and  more  careworn  than  the  first  one, 
but  still  has  bright  eyes  and  is  very  similar  to  his  friend  in  appear- 
ance. He  is  visiting  in  this  room,  as  he  lives  in  a  room  across  the 
passage.  His  wife,  the  other  woman  in  the  room,  appears,  at  first 
sight,  to  be  a  child;  she  is  so  emaciated;  her  hands  are  claws;  her 
hair  is  short,  black,  and  bushy,  and  her  eyes  are  dull  and  hopeless; 
her  teeth  stick  out  like  fangs.  On  second  sight  she  seems  an  old 
woman;  but  no,  she  is  only  about  forty  years  of  age,  although  she 
is  deaf  and  almost  blind.     Hers  must  have  been  a  life  of  poverty  and 

273 


incessant  suffering.  Even  now  she  seems  to  be  enduring  pain,  perhaps 
that  of  hunger.  Her  sad  and  melancholy  appearance  contrasts  strongly 
with  the  gayety  and  good  spirits  of  her  husband.  Watch  him  as -he 
looks  at  her,  and  note  how  proud  he  seems  to  be  of  this  bundle  of 
pain  and  rags,  how  affectionately  he  calls  her  "old  woman,"  as  lis 
watches  her,  sitting  by  the  door.  The  scene  is  very  picturesque;  the 
small  room,  the  dim  light,  the  Italian  men  and  the  two  women,  the 
one  so  happy  and  comfortable-looking,  the  other  racked  with  pain, 
but  still  bravely  trying  to  smile,  and  the  innocent  babe,  calmly  sleep- 
ing, unconscious  of  the  poverty  and  misery  of  its  surroundings. 

We    can   only   marvel   at   the   cheerfulness   displayed   here   among 
the  most  depressing  surroundings. — R.  M.  Gooch. 


THE  PISA  TOWER. 

To  the  north  of  the  city  of  Pisa,  on  a  pretty  grass-covered  square, 
stands  the  leaning  tower  forming  part  of  a  notable  group  of  buildings 
that  have  attracted  public  attention  for  centuries  past.  The  cathedral 
is  the  central  object.  In  the  rear  of  this  stands  the  tower,  in  front 
the  baptistry,  and  at  the  side  the  "Campo  Santo,"  or  cemetery.  These 
buildings  of  pure  white  marble,  standing  out  against  the  blue  Italian 
sky,  form  a  striking  picture.  The  Tower,  cylindrical  in  shape,  and 
one  hundred  and  seventy-nine  feet  high,  rises  far  above  everything 
else.  Its  first  story,  with  enclosed  columns,  is  surmounted  by  six 
stories  of  beautiful  colonnades,  surmounted  by  the  belfry,  in  which 
hang  seven  bells,  the  largest  of  which,  v/eighing  six  tons,  is  placed  on 
the  side  opposite  the  leaning  side  of  the  tower.  It  takes  its  name, 
"Leaning  Tower,"  from  its  peculiar  oblique  position,  which  is  thirteen 
feet  out  of  the  perpendicular.  It  is  now  generally  supposed  that  the 
foundation  sank  in  the  course  of  erection,  and  a  proof  of  this  is  that 
the  columns  in  the  upper  stories  are  longer  on  the  leaning  side. 
A  small  door  gives  access  to  the  interior,  whence  a  winding  stair- 
way of  two .  hundred  and  ninety-four  steps  leads  to  the  belfry.  At 
each  landing  one  obtains  a  fine  view  of  the  surrounding  scenery; 
but  the  one  surpassing  all  others  awaits  the  traveler  at  the  top,  where 
is  disclosed  a  picturesque  panorama,  extending  for  miles  in  every 
direction. 

Standing  on  the  highest  platform,  one  has  an  unobstructed  view  as 
far  as  the  eye  can  reach.  To  the  northeast,  a  plain  stretches  away, 
meeting  the  Carrara  mountains  at  the  horizon.  To  the  westward  lies 
the  Mediterranean,  dotted  here  and  there  with  vessels;  and  to  the 
left,  in  the  distance,  is  seen  Leghorn  with  its  bell-towers,  its  churches, 
and  its  harbor,  decked  with  white-sailed  ships.  Only  a  little  way  off 
is  the  historic  Arno,  flowing  peacefully  seaward,  on  each  side  of  which 
lies  the  quaint  city  of  Pisa.  Across  the  street  from  the  Tower  are 
stores  filled  with   beautiful  statuary,   copies  of  all   the   great  master- 

274 


pieces  of  art:  while  in  the  square  below,  awaiting  every  newcomer, 
arc  the  street  venders  with  baskets  of  marble  busts,  all  sorts  of 
curios,  and  souvenir  postals;  there,  also,  is  the  ubiquitous  guide,  ever 
willing  to  tell  in  broken  accents  ail  that  he  knows  and  much  more 
besides.  At  the  right  is  the  old  "Campo  Santo,"  to  which,  after  the 
loss  of  the  Holy  Land,  fifty-three  ship-loads  of  earth  were  brought  from 
Mt.  Calvary,  so  that  the  dead  might  repose  in  holy  ground.  Lastly,  the 
eye  falls  on  the  cathedral  and  baptistry,  which  with  the  tower 
make  one  of  the  finest  groups  of  buildings  in  the  world.  Seen  in  the 
brilliancy  of  an  Italian  sunset,  with  the  radiant  rays  reflected  upon 
the  pure  white  marble,  these  form  a  picture  that  can  never  be  for- 
gotten.— Almon  Greenman. 


A  FRUIT  STAND. 

The  Fifth  Avenue  bridge  was  turning,  and  I  could  see  the  train 
that  I  had  intended  to  catch  just  pulling  out,  so  what  was  the  use 
of  worrying?  An  important  little  tug  with  its  unwieldy  load  puffed 
on.  regardless  of  the  smoke  that  choked  the  onlookers. 

As  I  turn  my  back  on  the  offender  my  eyes  rest  on  a  familiar  sight, 
a  fruit-stand.  It  is  a  typical  stand,  such  as  is  pictured  by  the  mind's 
eye  when  the  name  Italian  fruit-stand  is  mentioned.  The  head- 
quarters of  this  tiny  establishment  are  not  much  larger  than  a  piano 
box,  having  a  door  at  one  end,  while  one  side  wall  is  made  of  small 
panes  of  glass.  In  front  of  this  little  room  is  a  sloping  shelf,  on  which 
are  displayed  the  wares. 

At  the  left,  having  three  of  its  sides  made  of  glass  so  that  the 
flowers  may  be  better  displayed,  is  a  flower  stand.  At  the  right  is  a 
small  battered  peanut-roaster,  which  has  done  long  and  faithful  service. 
A  canvas  awning  protects  this  little  stand  from  sun  and  rain.  No 
doubt  at  some  previous  time  this  covering  was  new  and  white,  but 
now  it  has  lost  all  resemblance  to  its  former  self,  and  is  old  and 
dejected,  patiently  waiting  for  the  end  of  its  duties. 

The  sign,  "Choice  Fruits,"  belies  the  nature  of  the  wares  dis- 
played, for  there  is  everything  from  cut  flowers  to  gum-drops  to  be 
found  here.  Baskets  of  grapes,  peaches,  and  pears  are  piled  up  in 
orderly  array  at  the  end  of  the  stand,  awaiting  the  good  housewife, 
who  will  soon  be  looking  for  a  bargain  in  the  way  of  fruits  to  take 
home  to  the  children.  The  boxes  and  baskets  of  fruits  are  placed 
on  the  table  in  a  much-studied  arrangement,  in  order  to  save  space, 
yet  the  artistic  instinct  of  a  true  child  of  Italy  has  made  the  stand 
a  picture.  The  "three-for-five-cents"  russet  pears  are  piled  next  to 
the  "five  for  ten  cents"  peaches,  and  just  above  these  are  placed  the 
red  apples,  which  have  been  polished  until  the  white  stalked  celery 
is  reflected  on  their  shining  surface.  Great  bunches  of  bananas  sus- 
pended from  the  awning  give  a  touch  of  yellow  to  the  picture.     The 

9>7K 


pink  carnations  nod  a  welcome  from  the  top  of  the  flower  stand,  and 
the  violets,  in  little  huddling  bunches,  appear  to  ask  for  a  wearer. 
The  little  peanut-roaster,  piled  high  with  the  sacks  of  peanuts,  is  not 
idle,  but  is  singing  its  merry  song. 

A  woman  with  a  careworn  face  and  sad  dreamy  eyes  is  standing 
by  the  window  of  this  room,  watching  the  passing  vessel.  She  seems 
meek  and  patient,  but  there  is  a  look  in  her  eyes  and  an  expression 
around  her  mouth,  showing  that  her  passions,  once  aroused,  are  not 
easily  quelled.  A  man  stands  in  front  of  the  establishment  care- 
fully filling  a  basket  with  peaches.  He  is  probably  "deaconing"'  this 
basket  of  fruit.  The  man  is  short  and  firmly  built,  with  a  physique 
that  a  foot-ball  man  might  well  envy.  His  face  has  a  shrewd  yet 
child-like  expression,  belying  the  popular  opinion  that  only  cold 
water  nations  are  prosperous;  for  in  spite  of  his  ragged,  filthy 
clothes,  it  is  plainly  seen  that  fortune  has  not  slighted  him. 

The  bridge  turned  back  into  its  place,  and  the  people  jostled  each 
other  in  their  hurry  to  reach  the  other  side  of  the  river,  so  I  hastened 
on  to  catch  the  next  train. — Aura  M.  Benedict. 


A   LOVING-CUP. 


On  a  little  carved  table  that  belonged  to  my  great-grandmother, 
among  a  motley  collection  of  odds  and  ends,  stands  a  small  Delft 
loving-cup.  The  curios  that .  make  up  this  strange  little  collection 
were  gathered  from  all  over  the  world,  the  loving-cup  coming  directly 
from  the  little  town  in  which  it  was  made,  over  a  century  ago. 

It  is  small  and  unpretentious,  and  few  people  would  guess  its 
value;  only  six  inches  in  height  and  about  four  in  diameter,  yet  more 
than  one  china  enthusiast  has  begged  us  to  sell  it.  The  bottom  of 
the  cup  is  a  little  larger  in  circumference  than  the  top,  but  the  dis- 
tinguishing features  are  the  handles.  There  are  three  of  these,  of 
ordinary  shape,  set  well  up  toward  the  brim,  but  large,  very  large, 
so  that  the  poor  little  cup  looks  dwarfed  by  the  enormous  handles. 

Of  course,  the  cup  is  decorated  with  the  dark  blue  peculiar  to 
Delft  china,  there  being  scrolls  in  the  darker  and  lighter  shades  of 
this  blue  around  the  top  and  bottom  and  on  the  handles;  and  between 
each  of  these  handles  is  a  little  scene  as  clear  and  distinct  as  a  litho- 
graph. The  first  picture  shows  an  old-fashioned  wind-mill,  one  of 
the  kind  that  was  used  long  ago  in  the  little  village  of  Holland.  It 
is  only  a  post,  and  an  old  and  crooked  one,  too,  with  its  three  gaunt 
arms  pointing  in  three  directions,  yet  it  must  have  done  its  work 
well,  for  the  little  house  behind  has  a  prosperous  air.  House  and 
mill  are  both  mirrored  in  the  quiet  little  stream;  for  not  only  is 
the  picture  little,  but  one  knows  by  intuition  that  the  house,  wind- 
mill, and  stream  really  were  little;  the  men  and  women,  too,  were 
little,    with  little  thoughts,  little   ambitions,  and  little  sorrows.     But 

276 


all  is  very  peaceful  and  quiet;  happiness,  at  least,  was  great  there. 

The  next  scene  is  entirely  different — a  rushing  river  with  many 
crafts;  in  the  distance  are  the  spires  and  smoke  of  a  city,  while  in 
the  foreground  is  another  wind-mill.  This  is  more  modern,  being  a 
great  stone  tower  with  four  webbed  arms.  The  water  is  dirty,  the 
tower  is  too  new;  the  very  position  of  the  man  stooping  Over  the 
water  is  suggestive  of  hard,  wearisome  work.  The  people  are  larger 
here,  but  they  are  not  happier. 

The  third  picture  is  that  of  a  sail-boat  in  a  storm.  The  sky  is 
dark,  the  water  surges  round  the  frail  little  craft  in  great  waves 
that  threaten  each  instant  to  destroy  it.  The  boat  is  tipped  almost 
over,  and  hanging  to  one  edge  is  the  figure  of  a  man;  he  is  looking  back 
toward  land,  where,  faintly  outlined  against  the  dark  horizon,  are  the 
three  arms  of  the  old-fashioned  wind-mill. 

Such  is  the  cup,  simple  and  unpretentious  as  I  said;  but  it  has  seen 
more  joy  than  has  many  a  mortal,  for  the  health  of  dozens  of  new 
babies  and  the  happiness  of  scores  of  pretty  brides  has  been  pledged 
from  this  small  Delft  loving-cup. — Jeannette  Foster. 


THE    TRAMP. 

One  sunny  afternoon,  early  last  summer,  I  was  sitting  on  a  railway 
bridge,  watching  the  gurgling  river  beneath  me,  when  "Old  George," 
a  well-known  tramp,  came  along  the  road.  I  bade  that  degenerate 
specimen  of  humanity  a  cordial  good-day,  which  he  apparently  re- 
garded as  an  act  of  sympathy  and  kindness,  for  he  came  over  where 
I  was  sitting,  sat  down,  and  began  to  tell  me  of  his  troubles.  As 
he  related  the  strange  story  of  his  life,  I  became  deeply  interested 
in  his  personal  appearance. 

He  was  a  short,  stout  man,  slightly  stooped,  nearly  fifty  years 
of  age,  and  weighed  about  one  hundred  and  eighty  pounds.  The 
part  of  his  sun-burned  face  not  hidden  by  his  long,  shaggy  beard 
revealed  a  life  of  hardship,  debauchery,  and  sadness.  In  heavy 
locks  about  his  shoulders  hung  his  uncombed  hair,  making  an  appear- 
ance not  unlike  that  which  might  be  expected  of  the  "missing  link." 
Nor  did  his  clothing  indicate  any  exception  to  his  peculiar  tastes. 
Gathered,  as  it  had  been,  from  the  offcast  remnants  of  as  many  dif- 
ferent wardrobes  as  there  were  pieces  of  dress,  its  wearer  had  a  variety 
in  color  scarcely  excelled  by  Joseph  of  old.  True,  however,  to  the 
custom  of  his  class,  he  had  managed  to  equip  as  successfully  as 
possible  his  head  and  feet,  for  every  tramp  believes  that  the  extremes 
are  the  only  parts  of  his  garb  that  appeal  to  the  eye  of  his  bene- 
factor. A  broad-rimmed  grey  hat,  dinted  into  as  many  peculiar  shapes 
as  if  it  had  been  the  outcome  of  a  failure  to  combine  into  one  all 
the  latest  styles  of  woman's  head-dress,  protected  his  weather-beaten 
brow  from  the  sun.     A  dark  brown  coat,  with  a   rip   under  the  left 

277 


arm,  two  huge  pockets,  and  an  air-hole  in  each  elbow,  partially  cov- 
ered a  buttonless  navy  blue  vest  and  a  dirty  grey  shirt,  of  which 
the  top  fastener  was  also  wanting.  His  attire  was  completed  by  a 
pair  of  cow-hide  boots,  over  which  the  legs  of  his  ragged  corduroy 
trousers  hung  in  wrinkled  folds. 

The  only  other  possessions  of  this  strange  being  were  the  rough 
cane  that  he  carried  in  his  right  hand,  an  old  overcoat  hanging  on 
his  left  arm,  a  few  pairs  of  socks,  which  swelled  his  large  coat 
pockets,  and  the  only  luxury  of  his  life,  a  broken-stemmed  clay  pipe. 

As  he  continued  his  story,  telling  how  he  had  been  driven  to  the 
road  by  the  reckless  extravagance  of  a  wife  whom  he  once  had 
loved  and  the  disgraceful  waywardness  of  a  beautiful  daughter,  who 
had  once  been  the  idol  of  his  home,  a  tear  rolled  down  his  cheek, 
and  revealed  to  me  an  expression  which  stirred  all  my  sympathies 
to  their  lowest  depths.  As  I  looked  into  those  swollen,  blood-shot 
eyes,  and  mused  upon  the  strange  markings  of  his  reddened  nose, 
which  looked  as  if  it  might  have  been  the  field  of  carnage  for  many 
an  army  of  insects,  I  could  not  fail  to  realize  how  plainly  the  traces 
of  sin  are  exhibited  in  the  face.  Yet  the  brimming  eye  and  the 
dampened  cheek  told  me  that,  in  spite  of  his  degradation,  a  tender 
heart  beat  within  that  saddened  bosom. 

When  I  carefully  intimated  the  subject  of  reform,  it  seemed  to 
touch  an  unfavorable  chord,  for  the  old  man  arose  and  slowly  started 
on  his  way.  I  watched  him  for  some  distance  until  he  disappeared 
around  a  curve  in  the  road,  and  I  saw  him  no  more. — F.  J.  Johnson. 


A   PHOTOGRAVURE. 

On  the  wall  of  our  library  hangs  a  picture,  which,  though 
simple  both  in  design  and  execution,  never  fails  to  awaken  interest 
in  its  beholder.  It  is  about  eight  inches  long  by  six  inches  wide,  and 
is  framed  in  a  white  mat  and  a  narrow  brown  molding.  The  picture 
is  but  a  photogravure,  yet  the  scene  represented  is  one  which  arouses 
many  conjectures  as  to  its  meaning. 

The  place  portrayed  is  the  interior  of  a  schoolroom.  The  ceiling 
is  paneled,  and  the  walls  are  very  high.  Hanging  on  one  of  the 
walls  is  a  large  portrait  of  an  old  gentleman.  Judging  from  the 
uniform  which  he  wears  and  the  numerous  medals  which  adorn  his 
coat,  one  would  at  once  imagine  him  to  be  a  German  official.  On 
the  adjoining  wall  hangs  a  map  upon  which  a  faint  outline  of  Europe 
may  be  discerned.  A  curiously-carved  desk  with  a  top  about  a 
foot  square  stands  in  the  front  of  the  room.  In  one  corner  is  a 
rude  shelf,  not  over  three  feet  below  the  ceiling.  Upon  this  are  a 
globe,  four  or  five  books,  a  tall  jug,  a  violin,  and  several  large  sheets 
of  paper.  But  the  most  prominent  piece  of  furniture  in  the  room 
is  the  blackboard,  which  rests  upon  an  easel.  Sketched  upon  the 
blackboard  is  a  very  ludicrous  and  unmistakable  portrait. 

278 


A  very  interesting  feature  of  the  photogravure  is  the  characters 
in  the  school  room.  In  front  of  the  board  stands  a  man.  presumably 
B  school  master,  whose  personal  appearance  at  once  excites  mirth. 
His  form  is  tall  and  angular,  his  hair  is  of  snowy  whiteness,  and  a 
pair  of  glasses  rests  upon  his  too  prominent  nose.  His  long  black 
coat  reaches  below  his  knees,  and  entirely  conceals  his  trousers, 
while  his  feet  are  encased  in  slippers  having  large  silver  buckles  at 
the  toes.  With  his  right  hand  he  is  grasping  a  small  boy  by  the 
collar,  with  the  left  he  is  pointing  to  the  caricature,  which  bears  a 
striking  resemblance  to  himself.  Anger  is  plainly  depicted  upon 
his  countenance.  He  is  looking  at  another  man,  whom  we  will  call 
tne  parson,  and  is  probably  setting  forth  the  crime  of  the  young  delin- 
quent. 

The  parson,  for  such  does  he  appear  to  be,  resembles  the  master 
only  in  his  style  of  dress  and  in  the  whiteness  of  his  hair.  In  other 
respects  he  presents  a  marked  contrast  to  the  teacher.  His  form 
is  shorter  and  much  stouter,  a  black  cap  rests  upon  his  hair,  and  a 
kind,  genial  expression  is  upon  his  face.  One  hand  rests  at.  his  side, 
wrhile  the  other  is  raised  to  his  lips  as  if  to  conceal  a  smile.  Gath- 
ered around  the  parson  is  a  small  group  of  children.  Two  little 
girls  with  black  eyes  and  dark  flowing  hair  have  their  caps  upon 
their  heads  and  their  satchels  in  their  hands,  ready  to  go  home. 
One  is  glancing  at  the  parson,  while  the  other  timidly  watches  the 
master.  At  a  short  distance  from  the  girls  stand  four  or  five  boys. 
One  of  them  who  has  his  hat  in  his  hand  evidently  sees  only  the 
amusing  part  of  the  joke,  for  his  face  is  enveloped  in  a  smile.  How- 
ever, he  has  wisely  hidden  from  the  master's  sight  by  standing  behind 
the  parson.  Two  other  boys  watch  the  scene  with  eager  curiosity, 
while  the  remainder  look  on  with  fear.  But  the  young  artist  is  the 
one  who  is  most  uncomfortable.  His  head  hangs  down  with  a  crest- 
fallen air,  one  hand  is  up  to  his  eyes,  and  the  other,  with  palm 
upward,  is  placed  behind  him  as  if  to  ward  off  expected  blows.  At 
his  feet  lies  his  open  satchel  filled  with  books,  tablets,  pencils,  a 
slate,  and  an  apple.  His  only  hope  of  escaping  punishment  seems 
to  rest  in  the  parson,  who,  we  hope,  will  intercede  for  the  young 
artist.  His  drawing  certainly  shows  a  talent  that  merits  recognition 
and  culture,  and  we  do  not  wish  him  to  become  discouraged. 

I  do  not  know  the  name  of  the  artist  who  has  designed  this 
photogravure,  but  it  is  evident  that  he  well  knows  how  to  portray 
human  character. — Sadie  Beardslee. 


THE    PET    BIRD. 

On  my  study  table,  a  little  to  my  left,  is  a  reproduction  of  the 
famous  painting  called  "The  Pet  Bird,"  by  the  German  artist,  Meyer 
von  Bremen. 

27« 


The  artist  begins  to  relate  his  story  in  colors  by  placing  upon  a 
table  in  a  room  a  bird-cage.  The  little  golden  colored  canary  has  just 
left  the  cage  and  is  now  perched  on  the  left  hand  of  one  of  the  chil- 
dren. The  canary  seems  to  be  very  tame  and  evidently  has  no  fear  of 
rough  treatment  from  the  children. 

In  the  picture  are  represented  two  boys  and  two  girls,  each  of 
whom  attracts  special  attention.  The  eldest  is  a  boy  about  twelve 
years  of  age,  who  seems  to  be  the  leader  of  the  sport  the  children  are 
having  with  the  bird.  This  boy's  face  beams  with  looks  of  kindness 
and  good  will.  The  painter  has  succeeded  in  making  the  lad  appear 
as  a  noble  little  fellow.  The  look  of  sunshine  and  good-natured  fun 
that  is  easily  read  from  his  countenance  attracts  our  attention.  He 
has  a  cherry  in  his  right  hand  while  the  canary  is  perched  in  his  left 
hand  pecking  away  at  the  fruit.  The  second  child  in  the  group  is  a 
little  girl  about  ten  years  of  age.  She  is  sitting  at  the  table  beside 
her  eldest  brother  with  her  head  resting  upon  his  shoulder.  Intelli- 
gence, thoughtfulness,  kindness  and  affection  are  written  in  her  looks. 
She  reminds  me  of  the  pen  picture  the  poet  Longfellow  has  given  us 
of  "Grave  Alice"  in  the  poem  entitled  "The  Children's  Hour."  On  the 
opposite  side  of  the  table  is  the  third  child,  a  little  girl  about  eight 
years  of  age.  She  is  a  personification  of  smiles  and  beauty.  She  is  the 
"laughing  Allegra"  of  the  group.  Her  bright  red  cap,  her  dimpled 
cheeks,  sparkling  eyes,  and  her  pearl-white  teeth  make  of  her  a  promi- 
nent part  of  the  picture.  The  fourth  child  in  the  group  is  a  boy,  who 
is  about  six  years  of  age.  A  chubby  little  fellow  he  is.  He  is  at 
one  end  of  the  table,  and  is  watching  with  a  great  deal  of  interest  every 
move  that  the  bird  makes.  So  intensely  interested  is  he  that  he  has 
kicked  off  both  of  his  wooden  shoes  and  is  now  in  an  attitude  sugges- 
tive of  jumping  upon  the  table.  His  childish  face  is  aglow  with  rap- 
ture and  delight  as  the  canary  eats  from  his  brother's  hand. 

The  room  in  which  these  young  people  are  having  so  much  sport 
is  a  very  plain  one.  There  is  no  carpet  on  the  floor  and  no  curtains 
are  at  the  window.  The  furniture  is  home-made  and  bulky  and 
clumsy-looking.  Jn  one  corner  of  the  room  is  an  old-fashioned  cup- 
board with  some  drinking  utensils  on  top  of  it.  On  the  sill  of  the  only 
window  in  the  room  is  a  flower-pot  of  medium  size,  in  which  is  a  pretty 
geranium.  On  one  side  of  the  room,  and  about  two  feet  above  the  floor, 
is  a  permanent  or  stationary  seat  about  one  foot  wide.  Grandma's 
knitting  is  lying  on  this  seat. 

The  artist  shows  us  in  this  picture  a  plainly  furnished  room  and  a 
group  of  children  whose  lives  are  replete  with  love  and  kindness  for 
each  other  and  for  dumb  animals. — M.  L.  Planingam. 


A  PICTURESQUE  VILLAGE. 

Situated  on  the  east  bank  of  the  Dupage  River,  with  high  bluffs 

280 


rising  on  both  sides,  is  an  old  village.    At  this  point  the  hills  are  about 
one-half  mile  apart,  the  river  flowing  midway  between. 

To  one  standing  upon  the  west  bluff  on  the  road  leading  into 
town,  an  interesting  view  is  presented.  It  is  winter,  and  the  ground 
is  covered  with  snow.  The  sun  is  just  setting,  and  the  windows  in 
the  houses  of  the  village  have  the  weird  appearance  of  being  afire. 
Down  below  us  on  the  river,  a  force  of  men  is  busily  engaged  in  storing 
away  ice  in  a  large  building  that  stands  near  the  stream.  We  can 
faintly  hear  the  shouts  of  the  men  and  the  yells  of  the  boys  who  are 
skating  near  by.  Here  the  river  is  divided  into  two  parts  by  a  small 
island,  across  which  the  road  is  built  like  a  high  turnpike.  Entering 
the  town,  the  road  then  turns  north,  thus  forming  the  main  street. 

In  the  north  end  of  the  village  we  see  a  large  schoolhouse  sur- 
rounded by  a  row  of  tall  elms.  Since  it  is  Saturday  the  yard  is 
deserted,  but  we  can  see  in  the  dim  outlines  of  a  large  snow  fort  the 
result  of  the  work  done  yesterday.  Directly  behind  the  schoolhouse 
stands  the  church.  It  is  of  the  true  old  style  with  its  long  steeple 
pointing  skywrard.  Our  attention  is  drawn  to  the  curl  of  black  smoke 
rising  from  the  chimney  into  the  clear  frosty  air.  Perhaps  A  meeting 
of  the  sewing  society  is  being  held  inside,  or  preparations  are  being 
made  for  a  social  in  the  evening,  when  the  town  and  country  people 
will  assemble  to  see  local  talent  displayed. 

The  buildings  just  described  stand  somewhat  apart  from  the  busi- 
ness portion  of  the  village.  On  the  main  street  we  notice  a  large  white 
building  with  a  front  like  an  immense  sign-board.  This  building  is  the 
town  hall.  A  few  rods  south  stands  a  small,  unpainted  structure.  A 
large  number  of  teams  are  tied  near,  while  the  front  door  often  swings 
open  to  persons  coming  and  going.  We  wonder  why  this  dilapidated 
building  is  so  popular,  but  our  curiosity  would  be  satisfied  if  we  knew 
that  it  is  the  only  saloon  in  town.  Farther  south,  at  the  point  where 
the  west  road  joins  the  main  street,  stands  the  village  blacksmith- 
shop.  Even  from  where  we  stand  we  can  hear  the  faint  ring  of  the 
anvil. 

Our  attention  is  attracted  to  a  large  crowd  collected  before  a  build- 
ing near  the  river.  This  is  apparently  the  village  store.  The  men  are 
standing  about  in  groups  on  the  south  porch.  Now  another  and 
another  farmer  drives  up  in  his  sleigh,  ties  his  horses,  and  joins  the 
crowd.  We  begin  to  wonder  what  this  gathering  means,  when,  just  as 
the  sun  disappears,  a  black-covered  wagon  draws  up  before  the  store 
and  the  driver  carries  something  inside.  The  crowd  follows  him.  In 
a  few  minutes  they  begin  to  come  out  with  their  mail,  and,  climbing 
into  their  sleighs,  they  drive  swiftly  homeward,  leaving  us  alone. — 
G.  I.  Bell. 


HOW   PETER    SOLOMON   BROUGHT   GLORY   TO   THE   FRESHMAN 

CLASS. 

Peter   Solomon  was  a   Freshman  in  a   Western  college.     He  had 

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unbounded  enthusiasm,  and  prided  himself  much  on  his  courage  and 
sagacity.  The  members  of  the  Freshman  class  saw  in  him  a  leader 
who  would  bring  them  glory.  So,  on  the  second  week  of  the  college 
year,  Peter  Solomon  was  chosen  president  of  the  class. 

One  of  his  prerogatives  was  to  call  meetings,  and  this  function  he 
proceeded  to  exercise  in  a  way  that  suggested  the  existence  of  only  one 
class  in  college.  No  class  in  the  history  of  the  institution  ever  had  so 
many  meetings. 

This  unusual  zeal  was  very  annoying  to  the  more  dignified  Sopho- 
mores, and  they  resolved  to  put  a  stop  to  it.  The  next  morning,  when 
this  resolution  became  known,  it  drew  from  every  Freshman  a  murmur 
of  indignation.  During  the  day  trouble  met  them  on  every  hand.  At 
class  they  were  nudged  or  stared  at  just  as  they  were  about  to  recite. 
In  the  hallways  they  were  tripped  up  or  compelled  to  walk  between 
two  long  rows  of  grinning  Sophomores.  But,  worst  of  all,  at  the  end  of 
the  chapel  hour  their  beloved  ribbons  were  stolen  from  the  lapels  of 
their  coats.  As  the  day  wore  on,  the  poor,  persecuted  Freshmen 
became  more  and  more  exasperated,  and  they  went  to  their  rooms 
vowing  vengeance.  The  loudest  in  protestation  was  Peter  Solomon. 
He  sought  his  room  early  that  day,  and  "boned"  on  his  Greek,  Latin, 
and  Calculus  until  he  thought  he  knew  the  lesson  as  well  as  the  pro- 
fessors. Then  he  put  on  his  double-breasted  coat  and  his  "military" 
cap,  took  his  tin  horn  from  the  wall,  and  selected  the  heaviest  cane 
from  the  bundle  in  the  corner.  Having  made  this  preparation,  he  blew 
out  his  light  and  hurried  forth  to  arouse  his  classmates.  Going  to  each 
Freshman's  room,  he  summoned  them  to  action,  and,  with  one  accord, 
they  meekly  obeyed. 

A  mass  meeting  was  held  in  a  grove,  at  which  information  was 
solicited  as  to  the  probable  whereabouts  of  the  Sophomores.  After  a 
hurried  consultation,  Solomon  divided  his  little  army  into  three  bands, 
appointed  leaders,  and  directed  them  what  to  do  with  their  captives. 
The  three  bands  took  different  directions  across  the  campus,  keeping 
in  the  darkest  places  and  stealing  quietly  along.  Every  object  which  cast 
a  shadow  was  at  first  imagined  to  harbor  a  "Soph."  After  fruitless  pass- 
ings and  repassings,two  of  the  bands  gave  up  the  search.  But  not  so  that 
led  by  Peter  Solomon.  Their  valiant  leader  was  determined  to  find  the 
enemy,  and  no  "Freshie"  dared  forsake  his  duty.  Back  and  forth  Peter 
marshalled  his  little  band,  at  every  turn  inventing  new  formations 
and  inspiring  it  against  imaginary  foes.  At  sight  of  a  bush  every 
"Freshie"  would  tremble,  and  only  through  the  encouragement  of  their 
intrepid  leader  could  they  be  persuaded  to  approach.  Several  of  the 
party  were  beginning  to  complain,,  when,  as  they  were  approaching  a 
grove  into  which  the  light  of  the  moon  did  not  penetrate,  a  Freshman 
who  had  been  sent  forward  as  a  scout,  came  crawling  toward  the  band, 
trembling  with  excitement.  "Hist!"  he  said,  "there's  about  a  dozen 
Sophs   over   there    in   the   grove."     This   information    caused  a   panic 

28-2 


among  Peter  Solomon's  wa triors,  and  some  were  in  favor  of  immediate 
retreat.  But  nothing  could  persuade  the  dauntless  Peter  to  give  up 
the  enterprise.  He  delivered  to  them  a  short  speech,  in  which  lie  cited 
their  wrongs  and  the  glory  that  would  fall  to  the  class  should  they  be 
victorious.  The  heart  of  every  "Freshie"  was  stirred  to  the  highest 
pitch  of  courage  and  resolution,  and  they  were  eager  for  the  advance. 
Going  along  the  fence  a  few  rods  from  the  place  where  the  guide 
said  that  the  "Sophs"  were  concealed,  in  order  to  climb  without  being 
seen,  they  leaped  the  fence,  and  crept  slowly  around  in  the  rear  of 
the  ambushed  foe.  When  about  three  rods  away  they  stopped  suddenly, 
for  they  could  dimly  see  ten  dark  forms  crouching  in  the  tall  grass 
near  a  little  knoll.  Summoning  all  their  courage,  they  raised  their 
canes  and  advanced  pell-mell.  Before  a  single  one  could  escape,  fifteen 
canes  descended,  and — ten  squealing  pigs  scampered  off  into  the  dark- 
ness.— A.  O.  Hammond. 


HULDA. 


Hulda,  our  cook,  is  a  tall,  awkward,  ungraceful  woman  about  thirty 
years  old.  She  has  light  hair,  brown  eyes,  and  a  beautiful  pink  com- 
plexion in  spite  of  the  fact  that  she  is  constantly  sipping  coffee  through 
a  lump  of  loaf  sugar  held  between  her  teeth.  Her  face  is  broad  and 
her  cheek-bones  are  high,  while  there  is  never  an  expression  of  intel- 
ligence or  emotion  in  her  face.  When  she  came  to  our  home  she 
brought  with  her  her  wardrobe  packed  in  two  dunlap  boxes,  a  part  of 
whose  contents  were  spilled  by  the  expressman  between  the  dray  and 
the  house.  She  aims  to  appear  attractive,  yet  she  looks  untidy  in 
her  gay  dresses  and  cheap  jewelry.  Nor  has  she  ever  been  seen  repair- 
ing her  clothes,  and  her  aprons  are  tied  on  with  wrapping  cord. 

Hulda  has  no  idea  of  order,  for  the  chopping-bowl,  cups  and 
saucers,  milk-pans,  and  glasses  are  a  promiscuous  heap  in  the  pantry, 
while  the  coffee-canister,  tea-strainer,  and  carving-knife  wander  from 
shelf  to  shelf  without  a  resting-place.  Inconsistently,  she  scrubs  the 
kitchen  floor  in  a  porcelain-lined  kettle,  and,  when  the  butler's  pantry 
is  being  cleaned,  she  washes  the  best  china  in  the  mop-pail.  Buckwheat 
pancakes  are  fried  in  the  best  table-butter,  and  the  coachman's  oatmeal 
is  afloat  in  the  richest  cream.  WThen  told  of  her  faults,  she  says  only, 
"Dat  so?"  or,  if  the  bell  rings  in  the  midst  of  the  reproof,  "Oh,  say, 
someboding  vanta  speaken  mad  you  in  de  tel-e-phone!"  and  she  walks 
off  to  allow  us  to  "speaken  mad  him." 

Evidently  Hulda  is  a  social  success,  for,  as  she  terms  it,  she  receives 
fourteen  "visits"  in  one  day,  as  many,  perhaps,  as  does  the  doctor  him- 
self, in  whose  house  she  resides.  In  summer,  when  everything  is  left 
in  her  charge,  she  takes  delight  in  serving  her  "girl"  friends  to 
vanilla  wafers  and  coffee  in  the  backyard,  as  they  sit  gossiping  on 
laundry  benches,  broken  chairs,  and,  perchance,  an  overturned  hen- 
coop.    Putting  a  cooky  into  "Yms  boy's"  hand,  she  sweetly  begs  him 

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to  "vat  effer  els  he  do  blie  goad  an'  not  tell."  Many  a  time,  too,  may- 
be seen  on  the  back-porch  railing  a  broad-shouldered  Irishman,  with  a 
cigar,  cane,  silk  hat,  and  patent  leather  shoes  worn  out  at  the  toes. 
But  Hulda's  most  persistent  admirer,  and  an  annoyance  to  the  house- 
hold, is  an  "ex-coachman,"  a  certain  John,  who,  regardless  of  weather, 
appears  shod  in  carpet  slippers  figured  with  huge  red  and  green  roses. 

Regularly,  on  Saturday  nights,  Hulda  is  kept  out  till  past  mid- 
night to  witness  the  death  of  a  friend  or  to  see  a  sister  off  to  Sweden 
until  we  imagine  that  her  stock  of  dear  ones  is  almost  exhausted.  We 
are  awakened  on  Sunday  mornings  by  Hulda's  shrill  singing,  as  she 
stalks  across  the  kitchen  with  the  coffee-mill  under  her  arm  and  keeps 
time  with  the  crank,  interrupted  only  by  the  falling  of  the  coffee. 

One  Thursday,  when  Hulda  was  out,  a  neatly-dressed  woman  anx- 
iously inquired  for  a  Mrs.  Bergren,  for  whom  she  had  searched  vainly 
in  old  haunts.  "Hulda  is  my  sister-in-law,"  she  said,  "but  my  brother 
and  one  child  are  dead.  Poor  little  Ellen!  She  was  sent  back  to 
Sweden  to  my  folks."  Since  then  Hulda  has  gone  from  "place"  to 
"place,"  seemingly  enjoying  the  changes  and  daily  becoming  more 
proficient  in  lying. 

Such  is  the  character  of  one  who  by  her  ever  innocent  face  has 
drawn  upon  the  sympathies  of  others,  yet  who  has  trampled  upon  all 
that  is  dear,  and  by  neglecting  a  mother's  sacred  duties  has  grown  so 
hardened  that  she  actually  revels  in  her  evil  ways. — Elsie  Zaumbrecher. 


SOME    MINNESOTA    SCENERY. 

Only  a  few  miles  from  Minneapolis  lies  the  quiet  little  village  of 

J .     Perhaps  it  would  resent  being  called  small,  for  it  boasts 

of  two  large  hotels  and  several  business  blocks,  to  say  nothing  of 
many  fine  residences  and  a  band-stand.  But  one  cares  nothing  for 
these  wonders  if  he  once  catches  a  glimpse  beyond  the  town.  On  every 
side  stretches  the  broad  prairie  with  its  great  waves  of  golden  grain 
rolling  in  the  autumn  breeze.  Here  and  there  large  patches  of  dainty 
"blue-eyed  flax  flowers"  may  be  seen  in  pretty  contrast  with  the  gold 
of  wheat  and  oats.  Each  tiny  flower  seems  to  have  caught  the  reflection 
of  the  sky  in  its  upturned  face  and  to  be  saving  it  for  a  cloudy  day. 

The  country  road  follows  the  edges  of  the  fields  in  a  straight  line 
until  it  reaches  a  hill.  From  this  place  on  for  a  long  distance  the 
section  men  have  evidently  lost  all  control  over  it,  for  zigzagging 
back  and  forth,  up  hill  and  down  again,  it  reaches  a  tiny  valley  through 
which  a  noisy  creek  flows.  A  rude  plank  is  placed  across  the  creek, 
and  just  beyond  the  road  continues  its  crazy  journey  upward.  Along 
the  banks  of  the  creek  are  many  large  trees,  but  once  out  of  the  pic- 
turesque little  valley,  the  only  trees  to  be  seen  are  those  in  a  stiffly 
arranged  grove  belonging  to  a  farm-house  near  by. 

This  farm-house  is  of  the  modern  country  type,  having  a  stiff,  set 

284 


style  of  architecture,  so  common  in  rural  homes  of  the  West.  The 
small  front  porch  has  above  it  an  elaborate  imitation  of  the  rising 
sun.  The  windows  are  protected  by  the  proverbial  green  blinds,  and  a 
small  balcony  juts  out  from  the  second  story  on  one  side  of  the  house. 
The  back  door  opens  on  a  pleasant  porch  covered  with  wild  cucum- 
ber vines.  The  dark  green  ivy  over  the  windows,  together  with  the 
wild  cucumber  vines,  does  much  to  relieve  the  otherwise  stiff  effect. 

But  riding  on  and  on,  sometimes  between  two  immense  wheat 
fields,  and  again  past  a  large  flax  field,  at  last  in  the  distance  one 
sees  what  seems  to  be  a  big  grove  of  trees.  The  road  winds  grace- 
fully down  a  gradual  slope,  ending  abruptly  in  a  pretty  lake.  Farther 
along  the  banks,  where  the  trees  are  not  so  dense,  a  broad  pebbly  beach 
invites  the  swimmer  to  a  bath.  On  the  opposite  shore  of  the  lake  is  a 
thick  forest,  which  casts  a  pleasing  shade  along  the  beach.  A  small 
island  rises  above  the  water,  and  an  old  rowboat,  more  ornamental 
than  useful,  is  fastened  to  an  over-hanging  tree.  Nowhere  is  there  a 
sign  of  human  life. 

To  some  people,  this  would  seem  a  lonely  spot,  but  to  one  who 
loves  woods  and  solitude  it  would  be  a  welcome  retreat,  for  Nature 
herself  has  made  this  a  garden  that  would  almost  put  Eden  to  shame. 
— Carrie  Mason. 


A    PLASTER    LION. 

You  will  say  that  a  lion  at  fifty  cents  is  a  bargain,  and  so  it  is. 
But  when  the  Italian  bent  with  his  heavy  basket  had  departed,  leaving 
me  alone  with  the  lion,  I  began  to  regret  my  purchase,  for  whether  he 
be  of  plaster  or  of  flesh  and  bones,  the  "king  of  beasts"  is  not  the  most 
agreeable  companion  in  the  world.  Then,  too,  it  was  a  question  as  to 
where  he  could  be  placed  to  the  best  advantage. 

Remembering  that  "music  hath  charms"  and  so  forth,  I  placed 
him  on  the  piano;  but  there  he  was  miserable,  for  he  shook  at  the 
sound  of  every  heavy  chord,  and  buried  himself  in  the  music  that  lay 
loose  around  him.  Then  I  tried  the  top  of  the  mantel,  but  that  was 
so  high  that  he  could  not  see  into  the  room,  and  he  grew  unhappy 
and,  I  am  sure,  felt  very  uncomfortable,  for  he  is  a  sociable  beast, 
and  the  bust  of  Schiller  that  bore  him  company  on  the  mantel  was 
evidently  entirely  oblivious  to  his  duty  as  host,  for  they  looked  so 
out  of  keeping  with  each  other  that  I  finally  took  the  lion  down  and 
placed  him  on  a  bookcase,  where  he  remains  to  this  day.  This  position 
is  in  every  way  more  adapted  to  his  comfort,  for  here  he  sees  all 
that  goes  on  in  our  little  world,  and  his  views  of  life  had  certainly 
not  been  limited,  for  under  him  in  the  book-shelves  are  treats  in  liter- 
ature, from  Lamb  to Kipling!     Above  him  hangs  an  engraving 

of  Lord  Tennyson,  with  whom  he  must  occasionally  exchange  bits  of 
gossip  and  tales  of  long  ago,  for  I  have  found  him  sometimes  with  his 

285 


head  turned  toward  the  poet  as  if  listening  in  dignified  silence  to  the 
words  of  wisdom  that  fall  from  the  beautiful  lips.  A  Greek  testament 
lies  beside  him  on  the  bookcase,  and  I  believe  it  is  respect  for  this 
which  keeps  him  in  the  straight  and  narrow  path. 

There  is,  however,  as  with  so  many  of  us  poor  mortals,  a  serpent 
in  his  Eden,  and  an  especially  provoking  one  it  seems.  It  is  the 
grinning  face  on  an  old  Florentine  bronze  door-knocker.  The  impish 
face  seems  always  to  be  mocking  him,  and  I  can  plainly  see  how 
irritated  he  becomes  when  the  knocker  is  admired  by  a  visitor  inter- 
ested in  curios  of  this  sort. 

He  stands  upright  and  erect  and  seems  always  on  the  alert,  with 
every  muscle  strained  and  head  bent  forward  as  if  expecting  some 
signal  or  command  which  never  comes.  His  magnificent  head  is  set 
on  a  pair  of  shoulders  that  are  symmetrical,  and  indicate  a  powerful 
strength.  The  heavy  mane  is  thrown  back,  and  his  head  is  raised 
proudly;  one  might  imagine  in  his  gesture  the  moment  of  victory 
over  some  enemy  of  the  forest,  were  it  not  for  the  feeling  that  some 
provoking  taunt  of  the  laughing  imp  has  stung  him  into  this  silent 
but  magnificent  rage. 

So  he  stands,  untouched  by  the  world  or  by  mortal;  for  except  for 
the  housemaid  who  dusts  him  every  day  he  remains  untroubled  and 
peaceful — his  only  enemy,  a  bronze  door-knocker. — Helen  Ruth  Balmer. 


SUNRISE    AS     SEEN    FROM    PIKE'S     PEAK. 

The  sunrise  as  seen  from  Pike's  Peak  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
sights  in  Nature.  It  is  novel  as  well  as  awe-inspiring  to  look  down 
upon  the  clouds  far  below  as  they  are  spread  out  over  the  valley  and 
to  watch  them  as  they  gradually  disperse  and  melt  away  into  the  sun- 
shine with  the  dawn  of  day. 

In  the  gray  light  of  morning  the  summit,  which  we  had  just 
reached,  appeared  very  bleak  and  barren.  The  whole  mountain  side 
seemed  to  be  a  huge  mass  of  rocks  and  bowlders  piled  in  endless 
confusion  upon  one  another.  On  the  right  of  the  summit  was  the 
Bottomless  Pit,  through  which  the  wind  howled  and  moaned,  making 
the  place  seem  all  the  more  desolate  and  deserted. 

In  front  of  us  were  the  steep  mountain  slopes  which  we  had  just 
climbed,  and  beyond  we  could  discern  faintly  in  the  distance  the 
peaks  of  the  adjoining  mountain. 

As  we  looked  a  faint  rim  of  the  sun  became  visible  over  this 
mountain  top,  and  the  scene  which  the  golden  light  disclosed  was  most 
beautiful.  As  the  sunshine  broke  through  the  purple  mist,  a  veil 
seemed  to  be  lifted,  and  we  saw  far  below  us  the  clouds  which  appeared 
as  the  waves  of  a  sea,  rolling  and  tossing  and  constantly  changing 
their   form. 

As   the   sun   rose   higher,  these  clouds  appeared  to  become  a  sea 

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til'  Are  which  glistened  and  sparkled  in  the  rosy  Light,  assuming  the 
most  beautiful  shades  of  red  and  purple  and  yellow,  and  a  golden 
pathway  such  as  one  sees  on  the  water  at  sunset  was  formed,  reaching 
to  the  sun. 

This  sight  lasted  fully  ten  minutes;  but  as  the  sun  struggled 
upward  and  shone  with  greater  brilliancy,  the  clouds  began  gradually 
to  disperse  and  to  afford  a  glimpse  of  the  mountain  side  and  the  valley 
below. 

As  the  sunlight  penetrated  farther  it  illumined  the  sides  of  the 
Bottomless  Pit,  which  were  lined  with  barren  and  jagged  rocks  as 
far  down  as  the  eye  could  reach.  On  the  right,  in  the  dim  distance, 
loomed  the  snow-capped  mountains  of  the  divide,  while  on  the  left 
barren  Mt.  "Baldy"  stood  out  alone  against  the  sky.  At  its  foot  lay 
Lake  Moreen,  sparkling  in  the  morning  sunshine. 

Looking  down  the  mountain  side  in  front  of  us,  we  beheld  noth- 
ing but  tall  pines  growing  so  densely  as  to  make  the  lower  part  of 
the  mountain  appear  to  be  one  mass  of  green. 

At  our  feet  lay  the  valley  spread  out  as  far  as  eye  could  reach. 
The  sleeping  towms  appeared  as  flower  beds  in  an  immense  garden, 
while  lakes  and  rivers  seemed  to  be  but  the  smallest  of  streams.  To 
all  this  the  lights  and  shadows  of  the  fleeting  clouds  gave  an  addi- 
tional beauty. 

The  whole,  view  formed  a  most  beautiful  and  fascinating  picture, 
which,  once  seen,-  will  not  soon  be  forgotten. — Lilian  C.  White. 


SHE. 

Come  up  into  the  library  with  me.  There  she  is,  writing  at  that 
low  desk.  She  is  a  blonde  of  medium  height.  Yes,  she  wears  rimless 
glasses,  to  adorn  her  face,  I  suppose.  Now  she  sees  us.  She  rises,  fluffs 
up  her  hair,  smooths  her  skirt,  and  comes  toward  us  in  a  sprightly 
manner.  She  is  not  beautiful,  but  how  attractive  she  looks  in  that 
neat  shirt  waist!  She  smiles,  so  do  you.  You  can't  help  it  any  more 
than  the  mirror  can.  She  attends  to  the  work  promptly,  and,  as  there 
are  no  more  who  are  waiting  for  books,  she  is  pleased  to  talk  with 
you.  Her  conversation  shows  culture,  which  she  has  acquired,  not 
by  a  college  education,  but  from  her  companions,  the  books.  Almost 
every  student  likes  to  misunderstand  the  arrangement  of  the  books 
and  to  consult  her  before  he  writes  his  argumentative  essay.  Not 
that  he  supposes  that  she  can  give  him  new  arguments.  The  "bibs" 
that  refer  to  her  rather  than  to  dry  books  do  not  expect  to  find 
solutions  to  their  problems  in  theology.  She  is  not  troubled  about 
theories  and  philosophies,  nor  does  she  stop  to  think  why  she  is  in 
this  world.  She  tries  to  love  or  rule  all  she  can.  Others  may  try  to 
cut  the  night  which  surrounds  this  world;  she  enjoys  the  day  at  her 
feet.  Her  aim  is  to  be  a  good  assistant,  to  look  trim  and  pretty,  to  be 
a  good  church  member,  and  to  increase  the  number  that  admire  her. 

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Some  distant  shining  to-morrow  will  bring  the  librarian's  position, 
or,  what  is  better,  the  joy  of  a  beautiful  home.  She  is  interested  in 
books,  because  that  is  her  business.  Each  new  fiction  that  looks 
inviting  she  hails  as  a  pleasure  for  some  "beauless"  hour.  I  didn't  say 
that  she  was  frivolous.  She  is  beyond  the  age  of  that.  Moreover,  such 
a  word  would  be  too  strong.  She  belongs  to  the  church  of  her  parents, 
and  believes  the  doctrines  of  her  forefathers  with  simple  faith.  Her 
troubles  and  sins  are  settled  each  day. 

Would  you  know  her  heart?  Look  at  that  little  fellow  in  dirty 
rags.  How  willing  she  is  to  find  the  book  that  will  please  him!  Not 
only  has  she  sympathy,  but  she  is  polite  under  trying  circumstances. 
This  fussy  old  lady  whose  husband  is  a  member  of  the  Board  of  Trade 
objects  to  paying  a  "four-cent"  fine,  and  is  sure  there  is  some  mistake. 
This  girl  wants  a  book  appropriate  "for  reading  under  a  tree  on  the 
shore."  This  grimy  boy  who  forgets  to  take  off  his  hat  wants  "Bunyan's 
Silver  Polish."  She  waits  on  them  all  without  a  frown  or  a  smile  in 
retort. 

After  all,  it  is  best  to  have  such  assistants  in  the  library — fair 
nymphs  to  allure  the  youth  into  the  groves  of  learning,  where,  even 
if  he  gets  nothing  from  the  leaves,  his  heart  may  be  lightened  by  the 
ripple  of  the  twinkling  stream. — E.  S.  Brandt. 


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